Then the Shadow Falls
by shego219
Summary: Three words: Star Trek noir. Set in the late 1940s, stubborn private detective Jim Kirk has to team up with the SFPD’s equally stubborn detective Spock to stop a serial killer. Eventually features all characters, Kirk/Uhura/Spock.
1. Stranger on the 3rd Floor AKA

**Then the Shadow Falls**

**Summary**: Three words: Star Trek noir. Set in the late 1940s, stubborn private detective Jim Kirk has to team up with the SFPD's equally stubborn detective Spock to stop a serial killer. Eventually features all characters, Kirk/Uhura/Spock. See ends of chapters for author notes.

**Pairings**: Kirk/Uhura/Spock triangle, very minor one-sided Chapel/Spock

**Chapter One**

**Stranger on the Third Floor**

**(AKA Christopher Pike Never Rings Twice)**

It was beginning to grow dark outside as I began my trek home, the potential peace of the mild summer night marred only by the sound of cars honking and people shouting in distance. One of the neon lights down the block outside my apartment building was flickering ominously in the dim light.

Actually, I lied. That light burned out six days ago, but it was still making that awful, annoying buzzing noise. It wasn't my problem to fix, but I was about to make it one. Maybe I could rearrange some of the wires on the side of the wall. Maybe I could rip the obnoxious sign off the side of the building altogether. My eardrums – and the rest of my head – could use a break.

The daily combination of smog and neon also left my eyes in a state of constant agony, reminding me just how far from the farm I was. Not that I was actually from a farm… let me start over.

James Tiberius Kirk is the name and sleuthing is my game. Well, job, but game is probably more accurate since I work for hire as a private investigator. Most of the time it's like a hobby, which is great since I don't have to put up with police regulations and officers breathing down my neck. Most of the time. There have been a few unfortunate repercussions due to my "reckless endangerment of" _some_ "civilians," whatever that means. It's probably safe to say the local PD thinks I'm more trouble than about half of the cases that come across their desks.

The other half of the cases that come across their desks eventually come to me. Well, I exaggerate, but that's one of things I do best. My ego would suffer if I didn't fabricate the truth a little every now and then. Right now though, my workload is improving pretty rapidly. Lots of strange cases are beginning to accumulate, which is why I left the bar early for once.

I also had to account for time spent walking. That's right; I was _walking_ down the street, in case that wasn't clear. Remember what I said about the police not usually sticking their noses in my business? Well they did last week – suspended my license and impounded my car after a high-speed chase gone wrong (in their eyes anyway). I caught the bastard, too, but somehow the doughnut-munching bum tailing me got the credit for it in the local paper.

Figures.

The glory thief situation left me pretty sore, but the car situation I can deal with easily. I'm already making plans to purchase a nifty motorcycle with the money from my latest cases, which I'm sure the boys down at the PD will appreciate even more.

A few more people I know will appreciate my new motorcycle would be the ladies in my life, of course. That's "ladies," plural for now, but I might be willing to change that soon. See, tonight, down at the bar, I met the girl of my dreams. Well, "saw" her is more like it, saw the most beautiful waitress in the world. The first waitress I chatted with wasn't half bad, a sweet little brunette that reminded me of Iowa, but the second one was the real deal. This gal was tall, dark and a total knockout. Seriously, I think she would give Josephine Baker a run for her money. She had this almost dangerous appeal, real mysterious, which would explain why my attempts to get to know her didn't exactly fly. I can't even remember what I said the three times I attempted to speak to her.

That's right, I counted the number of times I tried to hit on her. I'm a sucker already. I'll have to remember to ask my old 'friend' Gaila, another waitress and bar regular, to introduce us.

Here's the par t where I take a mental detour to explain something important. Don't worry, I'm sure it bothers you more than me, but this is pretty crucial. At least, **I** think it is, and it's my story, so I'm going to enlighten you.

Fact: My friend Gaila has green skin.

You didn't freak out yet, did you? Great.

Here's the thing – Gaila is an Orion. I know what you're saying to yourself right now; you're saying, "But what the devil is an Orion?" And this begins the really weird part of my explanation.

Last summer – 1947, for those of you keeping calendars – this alleged UFO crashed near New Mexico. The official story is that the military intended to recover the debris and… bodies, or whatever, from the scene and cover everything up (which, well, it's the thought that counts). Reportedly, they even had a name picked out for their dump site: Area 51. Isn't that cute?

As you can see, that definitely didn't happen. Some loose-lipped city-dweller snuck out to the scene of the crash and reported everything back at the printing press he conveniently worked for. Word spread before the government could react sufficiently, and pretty soon the whole world was talking about how absolutely nuts this American sucker was.

Only the thing was he was completely right. Most of the globe had to eat their words when real-life, honest-to-God ALIENS – not like immigrants, _aliens_ from another planet – started showing up in Roswell. The ones that died sent some sort of signal to their mothership or whatnot before they bit the big one.

So then this race told another race about our planet Earth, and they told their friends, who told _their_ friends… I stopped keeping track a long time ago of who told what race to go where, but the fact is, a bunch of supremely-evolved extraterrestrial have colonized and set up camp on Earth, especially in the United States. They also seem to love Canada, for which I don't blame them.

Isn't that incredible? We have aliens populating our country and we can barely make it to the frickin' moon! Admittedly, we're closer than the Soviets but that isn't saying a whole lot.

While the whole situation is little unsettling for most guys, I find myself inexplicably fascinated by all the different races and cultures. It's fun to be able to walk down the streets of San Francisco – which is already pretty diverse without the alien population – and see all the species and colors intermingle.

Also, alien women are totally gorgeous and totally dig earth guys, if you know what I mean. What, you didn't think it was all about that intermingle-y, "we are one" sap, did you? I think you know me better.

By now we've reached my apartment. I'll invite you up against my better judgment.

It's not like I had that much to drink tonight in the first place, and I made it up two flights of stairs without incident, so of course, now is the time my hands decide to develop butter fingers. I watched in mild horror as my set of keys fell between the cracks in the steps and returns to the first floor without me.

_Dammit, Jim!_ I can practically hear my friend's words of wisdom now. Don't worry; I'm sure Bones will come into play later since I don't know many doctors and I seem to require frequent medical attention. Right now I'm a tad more concerned with the person attempting to break into my apartment.

That's right, someone is breaking into my apartment, or at least that's what it looks like. Why they would choose a seedy apartment on the third floor belonging to a nearly-broke PI from Iowa, I haven't a clue. Well, I guess the "from Iowa" part doesn't usually work in my favor in any situation, but in short, my digs aren't exactly the nicest.

"Hey! Hey you!" I shouted into the shadowed half of the narrow hall. "Don't think I can't see you!"

I couldn't see worth a damn. The guy must have recognized my bluff because he didn't appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere.

"If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get," I muttered threateningly, aiming to make my voice sound authoritative.

Imagine my surprise when a voice of actual authority answered me back.

"You really are your father's son, you know that?"

I reeled back a step, like this stranger had just punched me in the stomach with his booming voice. Seriously, I hope he didn't wake any of my neighbors; I get enough noise complaints here without his help.

Of course, now I knew this is no stranger. As I walked closer, I could distinctly make out his silver crew cut, and the lines on his face which were quite at odds with his crisp, police uniform.

"You are George and Winona's boy, aren't you?" my distinguished guest asked when I was standing in front of him, looking me up and down, not in an unfriendly way.

"Captain Pike," I finally addressed him, resisting the urge to throw him some sort of improvised salute.

To say I was dumbfounded was an understatement. Captain Pike – the Christopher Pike – was standing in the hall outside my apartment, waiting for me.

Here's another interesting fact for you; Pike used to be on the police force with my dad back in Iowa. I'm not sure of all the nitty-gritty details since my dad was killed in the line of duty the day I was born and Pike took off for San Fran shortly after, but from what I've gathered they were pretty close.

The respectable (if not exactly hospitable) man brought me back to reality by clearing his throat. "James, what I'm here to tell you is of the utmost importance. Is there somewhere we could speak more privately?"

Nodding, I reached for the knob before remembering I was locked out.

"This is probably private enough," I stated, straightening back up. Sure, my neighbors could be busybodies on occasion, but I seriously doubted they would suddenly take an interest in my affairs at this time of night. Besides, this was as good as I was going to get.

Pike's expression changed, a semblance of amusement soon replaced with his usual stoic gaze. "All right then."

Honestly, the best thing I was hoping for was another cease-and-desist notice. I wasn't entertaining any hopes of getting an apology for the glory hog episode.

"The San Francisco Police Department needs your help, Mr. Kirk."

All right, I definitely wasn't expecting that.

"Excuse me, sir," I asked, seconds away from bursting out laughing, "are you sure you have the right guy?" because, really, there must have been at least one other James Kirk somewhere, _anywhere_, in the U.S. The only other explanation was that this was part of some elaborate prank that the rest of the tricksters at the station put their captain up to, which was even harder to imagine possible.

"If I were to go into your apartment, how many murder cases would you have on your desk right now?"

Apparently Pike was the one asking the questions in this scenario.

"Four," I responded, swallowing a lump in my throat as if I were the guilty one in every case.

"And how many do you usually have?"

"Zero," I replied honestly. What was he getting at?

Pike sighed and looked at a point beyond but relatively near my head. "So I suspected."

"Excuse me, sir," I began again, "but what gives you the right to come in out of the blue here questioning my business?"

I sincerely hoped he would choose not to answer that query.

All the answer I received was a curiously arched gray eyebrow. He was going to say something about my dad again, I just knew it.

Instead, Pike surprised me by jumping straight to the facts. Cop or not, you have to admire the fact that he doesn't beat around the bush.

"Six boys have been murdered, all high school-aged."

"Six boys?" I repeated, struggling to put what should have been simple facts together.

Of course Pike spelled it out for me.

"Four of the six families have hired _you_ to investigate." I was too floored to speak, he continued. "Apparently, they were fed up with the police taking too long, even though we have our most valuable detectives on the case. Additionally, our leads are slim to none. In some ways, we're lucky we were even able to connect all six cases."

I nodded, slightly shamed by the last sentence since I hadn't even been able to connect four obviously similar cases. I tried not to let it get me too down, though.

"James, I realize that under normal circumstances, my detectives would be less than thrilled to be working with a private investigator such as yourself, but I think I speak for the entire police department when I say we could use an extra pair of experienced hands on this case. Surely we can work past our differences…"

I let this sentiment hang in the air for a moment to suggest that I was still unhappy about my car being impounded.

"At least tell me you'll think about it," Pike said at least, fixing what assumed was his version of a tough-yet-fatherly gaze on me.

"I'll consider it," I said, daring to look him square in the eyes.

If this response surprised Pike, it didn't show on his calculated face. He merely nodded and walked away from me toward the stairwell at the end of the hall.

"Do you think you could throw my keys up to me from the first floor?" I yelled after him.

Pike turned back to me, his forehead wrinkled and his expression unreadable in the shadows, then resumed descending the first flight of stairs.

**A/N**: I'm going to apologize up front for out-of-character-ness. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, and even longer since I've watched the original series. If you catch anything extremely off, do let me know and I'll try to fix it. Also, my update periods are going to suck because, honestly, I'm usually pretty lazy and on top of that I'm starting classes soon. However, I know that's a lame excuse, so stay tuned!


	2. Bodies Are Where You Find Them

**Chapter Two**

**Bodies Are Where You Find Them**

"So you're actually going to go through with it?"

"I said I didn't know," I told my friend tartly. "What part of that needs repeating and-or translation?"

"All right, I get it, no need to be a smart ass," my best buddy Bones said with hostility. He's always like that at work. Or at the bar. Or… well, pretty much everywhere.

Doctor Leonard McCoy was one of the best the UCSF Medical Center had to offer. The hospital sent out a call for doctors of all purpose immediately after the war, and Bones was certainly a jack-of-all-trades if there ever was one. Blessed with serious skills and a scary level of concentration, he accomplished major surgeries with the ease and precision of a routine vaccination.

Of course, like most doctors, Bones was flawed in that he wasn't much of a people person, which would explain why the majority of our serious discussions took place in the morgue. Autopsies were a breeze – not that I had ever… _helped_ with one or anything – but he could spend hours down here, away from nagging nurses and harried hospital patients hanging in the balance.

All that time with dead bodies may have been peaceful, but it wasn't exactly conducive to his marriage. Workaholic Bones was a recent divorcee, his wife and daughter having moved to the mountains of Montana a few short months ago.

Oddity that he was, Bones did not hole himself up even further in his work as many of his colleagues would have suspected. Once they're divorced, some guys take up drinking hard liquors or smoking cigars or speeding around town with young blondes. Bones befriended me. Which, well, is kind of flattering, to know you're some guy's midlife-rebellion solution, but we really get each other as friends.

"_Son of a bitch!_" Bones shouted as the scalpel slit his finger.

I never said we were giggling Boy Scout buddies.

And I'll admit he probably wouldn't have sliced his finger if I hadn't poked him. But this was crucial!

"Bones, this is crucial," I reiterated, "do I have your support or not?"

"What do you need it for?" he asked. For a doctor, he sure was good at playing dumb.

"Bones –"

"And what did I tell you about calling me Bones at work?" he questioned, trying to deter me. Like that would ever work.

"Bones, please," I said, getting a bit exasperated. "You're my best friend, and I respect your opinion. You have no reason to hold anything back from me, ever, and if you don't agree with what I'm doing, you should tell me so."

After appraising me for a minute, Bones sighed, putting one hand on his hip. "Career-wise," he began, "I think this could be a good move for you. You know I'm generally a bit… _wary_ of cops," (at which point I laughed because that was the understatement of the year) "but at least I'll be able to get you off my back, asking for access to my autopsy records all the time."

"_McCoy_," I groaned. "Seriously."

"Seriously?" Bones asked, arching an eyebrow in mockery before removing his gloves and crossing the room to the sink. "What's not to like? You'll get to work with new people, which definitely won't be a problem, show off your skills which, again, won't be a problem, plus you can work on confronting those deep-set authority issues you think no one has noticed."

"What authority issues?" I asked.

Bones snorted and gave me a funny look. "Just get out before you make me lose a finger."

"You know, I don't have to be at the station 'til 2:30," I said.

Bones pulled on a new pair of gloves with a menacing snap. "Don't make me check your immunization chart," he threatened.

"All right, so I'll see you later then," I said quickly, shooting him a quick grin before exiting.

On my way out the door, I rammed straight into a walking stack of file folders, which, when sent flying across the hall, revealed an exasperated Christine Chapel. That's Nurse Chapel to you. She's a pretty young thing, but I've never made a pass since she works with Bones. I may be his best friend, but he'd have my head if I hurt her.

Ever the chatterbox, Christine surprised me by sending one single question my way. "Are you going down to the station?"

"Yes," I replied warily, surprised Bones had shared even this much information with her, "why?"

"No reason," she lied, a deep pink blush spreading across her cheeks. "Tell everyone I say hi."

I looked back at Bones for an explanation but he simply rolled his eyes at both of us.

* * *

Down at the police station that afternoon, I found myself dealing with a new blonde, and a rather saucy one at that.

"Sir," she snapped, "I'll tell you again; you are not allowed beyond this point without a police escort."

The receptionist seemed a bit of an odd duck. She would have been quite a looker if not for the hair, which was short on the bottom with braids piled on top like some sort of hive. I was tempted to ask her where she got it done.

Instead I let out another frustrated sigh. "Look, if you could just check with Captain Pike –"

"I already checked with Captain Pike," she replied tartly.

"-Again," I finished, "If you could check with Pike _again_ –"

"Captain Pike has been informed of your arrival, Mister Kirk," a new female voice announced.

I snapped my gaze up and over the receptionist's shoulder. The officer who has spoken and was standing behind her was blessed with striking good looks. Her dark hair hung in a long, sleek ponytail, very much opposed to the tight waves and volume that was popular. It was a no-nonsense style I had noticed, great for women who dealt with quarrelsome gents on a regular basis, either as a cop or as, say, a waitress.

How did I notice this? What it boils down to, my friend, is that policewoman in question was the waitress –_ my_ waitress – from the bar last night.

"Holy shit," I remarked in awe. My two lady companions let that brazen statement hang in the air for a minute.

"I take it you're the James T. Kirk in question," the lovely officer stated more than asked, her gaze growing steely.

I offered a shrug in response. "I am whoever you say I am, doll face." I threw in a grin for good measure, which earned me a strange look from the receptionist. Eh, you win some, you lose some, and sometimes when you're flirting with two women at once, you lose both. It was a chance I had to take.

The blonde simply snorted in amusement. "He's all yours, Uhura," she remarked, turning her attention back to her desk and the telephone which had just started to ring.

Officer Uhura glared at me then turned and started back down the hall she had arrived by. Clearly she remembered me from the night before; hopefully I could find a way to work that in my favor eventually.

I followed despite the lack of invitation, presuming she had been sent by Pike like she indicated earlier.

"Uhura, that's a lovely name," I said when I caught up to her. "What's your last name?"

The dark-skinned beauty shot me a side-long glance. "Uhura _is_ my last name."

"Oh. So I assume it would be rude of me to ask your first name in a professional setting?"

"Yes," she noted, "yes it would." She made the remark casually yet cutting, like that discussion was dead forever. Of course, I wasn't giving up that easily, but I decided to humor her for the time being.

"So what's her name?" I asked after an awkward pause, trying (and failing) to make further polite conversation with my guide.

Uhura stared at me blankly.

"The receptionist, I mean. With the hair? Which is stunning, by the way," I back peddled in case the two were pals.

Uhura cut me off. "What do you think you're doing?"

I shrugged. "Here? I'm helping with a case. Captain Pike and I discussed it already and he thinks I could really help out with some of the leads I've gathered."

At this, she spun around to face me; sensing a conflict, I stopped walking a few steps behind her.

"I told Pike this was a bad idea," she said more to herself than me. "I told him we couldn't have just anyone coming in off the street to help."

"I'm not just anyone," I replied, injecting a bit of boastfulness in my tone. "I'm a qualified professional."

"A private investigator," Uhura pointed out, "who happens to spend most of his time patrolling local bars. How do I know you won't blow my cover?"

"Is that what this is about?" I asked. Sure, she had a valid concern; cops (and PIs alike) can't run a lot risks when it comes to doing an undercover job. Still, I thought she was blowing things a mite out of proportion.

The loathsome look she sent my way was enough to keep me quiet on the subject.

"I promise not to tell," I said, feeling not unlike a five-year-old. "Believe me, I know what it's like to be undercover, it's not all fun and games… I won't screw up, I swear."

Officer Uhura gave me a final glance up and down before nodding. "I believe you. I don't know why," she added, turning around once more, "but I do."

When she had her back to me again, a grin spread across my face. Earning the trust of a cop, who just happened to be one of the most beautiful women I had ever met, was no easy task and yet I had done it on my first day. I liked it here already.

"So what kind of case are you working on?" I asked.

"Once that doesn't concern you," Uhura replied sassily as we turned the final corner into the heart of the station.

If there was a technical name for this type of work area, I couldn't for the life of me remember it. What I was immediately reminded of was a baseball pitching pen, a bullpen if memory served me correctly. There were no separators, just a sea of desks, some in groups, blending seamlessly together. Dozens of people were milling about, collecting papers, sitting at their stations, clicking away at a typewriter. At least one desk in every cluster had a shiny black telephone.

Off to one side of the enclosure, I noticed a door in the wall with Captain Pike's name in authoritative black lettering. In the window was a sign that announced that he was out for the day.

"Pike isn't even here?" I asked. "What was all that stuff at the front desk about then?"

Uhura's lips quirked up into a slight grin. "Pike asked me beforehand if I could show you around and introduce you to your partner in his absence. I just wanted to give you a little time to sweat."

"Gee thanks," I noted sarcastically as we entered the pen. "Where is my partner exactly?"

"Right over there," Uhura said, nodding her head politely in his direction.

At first I wasn't sure who I was supposed to be looking at, but it slowly became apparent that I was to be working with the one officer who stood out more than most. Standing staring down at his desk was a tall serious-looking man with shiny black hair which appeared at odds with his rough outerwear. He was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes, most of which were a muted gray and rather wooly-looking, almost like a sweater of some sort.

"Is he undercover as a hobo?" I asked in a polite whisper.

"No," Uhura hissed with a pointed look, "he's a plainclothes detective, and he's a Vulcan."

I abruptly stopped walking, narrowly missing a potted plant someone had left sitting on the floor by their desk. "He's a what?" I asked, barely managing to keep my voice down. I didn't succeed as well as I thought since five officers looked up from their paperwork at me.

Uhura smirked down at me as I knelt to remove some vines from my shoe. "Technically, he's _half_ Vulcan, half human, and all yours."

I stood back up unassumingly and cast a casual glance at my new partner. "What's his name?" Judging from the looks the five aforementioned desk workers gave me, this wasn't the usual reaction to the information I had just been given.

"Spock," Uhura said with a nod of finality, as if she judged me worthy of working with him.

"Spock?" I asked, slightly puzzled. "No last name or… first name, just… Spock?"

"You may call me Detective or Mister Spock if you prefer," said a monotone voice from behind me.

If he had been any other mug, I would have thought he was mocking me, but every angle of this man's face projected his sincerity. Deep brown eyes that might have been warm on an ordinary human bored straight through me, his eyebrows drawn down and ending too abruptly for my liking. His strange pointed ears, which I hadn't noticed upon first glance, mimicked the slant of his eyebrows. I understood immediately that this was one cop not to trifle with…. not at the moment at least.

I straightened to my full height to address him. "Right. I apologize for my bluntness - and tardiness – Inspector."

The Vulcan-type raised one of his tapered eyebrows in a quirky sort of signal. "Inspector?"

I cleared my throat. Usually I wasn't worried about overstepping boundaries, even on the first meeting, but some part of me wanted sincerely to gain the trust and respect of this man, alien or not.

Also, I can't lie to you; I was kind of looking to get on the good side of the law enforcement for once, especially one of the higher-ranked officers. I figured maybe having an in with this Spock guy would get the rest of the crew to cut me some slack.

"Well," I explained, "I was under the impression the term 'Inspector' was used interchangeably for 'detective' in some police departments, such as this one."

A few heads popped up around the bullpen and Uhura managed a slight roll of her eyes.

After a moment's hesitation, Spock's eyes met my own, a questioning glint in them.

"Detective is fine, Mister Kirk."

As work around us resumed, I made a mental note to call him "mister" from now.

"All right, Mister Spock, it's time to compare notes," I announced once we were standing near his desk. "Who exactly is being killed?"

"Teenage boys," Spock replied curtly, "all human, all between the ages of fourteen years and eighteen years."

"High school age," I noted, having a brief lapse into my own memories of the great learning institution that was secretly hell in hallway-ed form. "How?"

Spock blinked at me for a moment, giving one desk-dweller an opportunity to look up at me with something like admiration in his expression. Apparently they like it around here when you dive right into the tough stuff. I had to be sure to keep that tip on file.

"Stabbings," Spock informed me. "All wounds are of approximately the same length, width, and depth though the points of insertion differ from victim to victim."

I winced a little even though I was already familiar with the stats. And I thought _I_ was bad about jumping straight to the facts.

"Some wounds were obviously meant to puncture internal organs, which would kill the victims swiftly," Spock continued as he began to spread photos and autopsy reports across his desk. "However, a few have been cut strategically and left to bleed out."

"All right," I said, picking up one of the reports. I did a double-take before realizing it was one of the victims whose parents had appealed to me. I had a copy of the exact same report on file courtesy of Bones. "When and where have the bodies been found?"

"As of now, I have no evidence to link the locations, but all have been found in or near alleys close to the downtown area. The medical professionals I have consulted with approximate the times of death for all six victims at or around four a.m."

I nodded, letting the paper I was holding float back down onto the desk. "Our killer is trying to prove something. Killing or leaving those bodies near the center of town is a sure way to get attention. He thinks he's invincible."

Spock looked at me quizzically. "I'm not entirely sure I agree with what you are saying, Mister Kirk. I believe you may be jumping to conclusions regarding our suspect already."

I sighed. "I was afraid you would say that," I mumbled, though I thought that what I had just said sounded pretty likely. I'd have to remember to appeal to his logic before making statements like that, or at least try to show him that I was in the right. "Just out of curiosity, who is your usual partner?"

"I do not have a usual partner," came Spock's reply. "Now concerning the young gentlemen of our investigation, it is my belief that –"

"What?" I shrieked in amazement. Even more of the bullpen was staring at me now. I ducked my head as if embarrassed.

"I believe we have already covered that aspect of the case, Mister Kirk," Spock quipped.

"That's not what… never mind," I said, shaking my head. If he didn't have a usual partner, that was his business. Well, his business and Pike's business, and I had every intention of asking the good captain what was what when I was through here.

"Pike said you needed more leads," I said, changing the subject quite effectively, if I do say so myself. "Tell me what kinds of leads you have so far."

Spock blinked at me.

"You know, like clues," I clarified, "as to who might be doing this."

"I understand you perfectly, Mister Kirk," Spock said impassively.

"Um, all right." I didn't believe him, but I wasn't about to start an argument over it.

Spock pulled a picture out of his stack that I had never seen before. "We have a set of tire tracks." Sure enough, the focus of the picture was on a city street marred by a set of black streaks. "The car appears to have rolled through some oil prior to leaving the scene of the crime."

I nodded, craning my neck to look at it right-side-up. "Any idea what make and model these are from?"

"No," Spock said, "and I would like your assistance with this particular quandary."

My mouth twitched into a quick smile; I didn't think I had ever heard anybody use "quandary" in an everyday sentence. Well, maybe this conversation wasn't exactly classified as "everyday."

"Let me guess," I supplied, "You want me to find someone who could take a look at these and figure out who they belong to?"

"Precisely," Spock agreed. "An automobile expert or mechanic familiar with these treads for questioning."

"Right," I said, clapping my hands together. This would be easier than a cakewalk. "Anything else you need me to do for you?"

Spock eyed me almost suspiciously. "Not at this present time. We will further this discussion tomorrow, perhaps at a time when you are less…. distracted."

"Hmm," I said. I barely heard his parting remark as I had been admiring Uhura as she returned.

"Uhura will show you out," Spock offered before turning back to his desk, this time pulling out the chair to sit. I caught Uhura throwing a slightly exasperated look at the Vulcan before glancing at me.

"Right," I replied as I turned to leave. "Nice meeting you, Mist— _Detective_ Spock."

I exited the building chanting to myself. "Inspector Spock, Inspector Spock…"

* * *

"He's half Vulcan?" Bones asked in astonishment, his brown eyes growing wide.

"Yes, but he's also half human," I pointed out in a manner I hoped was diplomatic. "I can work with that."

Bones continued to stare at me like I had grown a second head. Actually, it was more like that time I had an allergic reaction to one of the vaccinations he insisted on shooting me up with.

"What? I'm open to new experiences! I like aliens."

"You like alien _women_," he corrected me.

"You said earlier that one of my assets was working with other people. Vulcan or not, I can make this work."

"You positive?" Bones asked, concern gracing his troubled features.

"We'll be pals in no time," I assured him.

Bones sighed, probably already assessing the damage I was bound to create.

"You always were the glass-half-human type."

**A/N**: What, you didn't think I'd really make Uhura a waitress, did you? Also, all chapter titles are borrowed from titles of classic era noir books or films. Any guesses as to who gets introduced in the next chapter?


	3. A Dangerous Profession

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews and updates! I have to say, I think it's a tad ironic that I'm releasing a chapter with this title on Labor Day.

**Chapter Three**

**A Dangerous Profession**

"TAXI!" I bellowed into the early-morning traffic, signaling with the hand that held my meager breakfast apple.

Several of the suits standing down the block looked up at me from their newspapers, and the serious-professional (but still devastatingly cute) redheaded woman to my right let out an exasperated sigh.

Lucky as I was, I looked up just in time to avoid having my foot run over by a lumbering yellow cab, which screeched up to the sidewalk. In contrast, its driver appeared sluggish, rolling down the window on the passenger's side of the front seat.

"Not you again," the cabbie grumbled. The guy didn't look familiar, but maybe he had had the great fortune of being my driver after a couple crazy bar nights, post-car impoundment of course. A few tendrils of steam drifted out of his cup of coffee, passing my smiling face and gracing me with its delicious aroma.

"Glad to see you on this bright and lovely morning, too!" I chirped. "And no, it's not for me."

I stepped back and gestured to the redhead. With a final astonished look, she gathered up her matching purse and folio and opened the back door of the cab with a mumbled thanks sent in my direction.

I shook my head imperceptibly. Growing up in the Midwest, common courtesy had been drilled into my brain like… well, common courtesy. Maybe I was going a little out of my way getting this lady a cab, but if I had learned anything in life, it was that the little things can start to add up.

"You sure you don't need a ride… for once?" the surly driver asked me.

"Oh, I'm sure," I replied, wondering how the hell this guy knew me and giving the redhead a wink before craning my neck to get a better look at the road behind the cab.

"In fact," I said, a grin splitting my face, "here he is now."

The black Chevrolet Stylemaster was incredibly subdued and would have gone almost unnoticed if not for the singular white word – POLICE – stenciled on the side. This year's model, it was sleek, all curves and chrome trim.

All in all, it was a nice car. It wasn't like my nifty little MG TC two-seater or anything, but definitely admirable.

The auto pulled up to the curb in the spot the cab had vacated a moment ago, and just as I had expected, Inspector Spock sat behind the wheel, which his long, skinny fingers held in a death grip.

I opened the door and slid in on the passenger's side of the cloth-covered bench seat. Being used to my TC's wider enclosure, I immediately smacked my head on part of the door frame, but I recovered quickly and without any of the signs of a concussion (which Bones had made me memorize after a few too many hazardous jobs).

Without so much as a glance, Spock waited until I had fastened my safety belt before expertly navigating back into the flow of traffic.

"Nice weather we're having this morning," I noted, nodding out at the fog surrounding us.

From out of the corner of his eye, Spock looked at me strangely. "Nice?" he repeated. "I'm sorry, Mister Kirk, but if you are attempting to be humorous, I'm not sure I follow."

I stared at him with wide eyes. "Okay…" I began slowly. "Yes, I was actually being sarcastic. What I said was the opposite of what I meant - I don't really think the weather nice. In fact, I think it's terrible."

"Indeed," Spock said. "This condensed layer of mist makes driving rather perilous. Additionally, it was unusually chilly this morning."

I shrugged. "Eh, that's just summer in San Fran. What are you going to do about it? By the way, thanks for picking me up."

"I must admit, I was surprised to receive your call this morning," Spock said. "I was unaware you knew how to access my private telephone number. I was also under the impression you possessed a vehicle of your own."

"Ah, 'possessed,' past tense," I replied, scanning my apple for bruises. "Your friends at the PD had it impounded recently. Don't ask me why."

"May I inquire as to why you do not simply use public transportation?" Spock asked, almost sounding curious.

"Ah, well, I do take the occasional cab," I admitted, "but I'm not exactly made of money."

"Are you capable of using the streetcar system?" Spock inquired. "From what I have observed, it is a state-of-the-art method of transportation and also quite efficient."

I snorted in amusement and resisted the urge to prop my feet up on the metal dashboard. "'State-of-the-art' – says the man who arrived here from space. Believe me, detective, in twenty years people won't even remember what a trolley looks like. As for why I don't currently use them, I have to admit, there was this one unfortunate incident a few months ago…"

"Are you implying that the city of San Francisco has banned you from using their public streetcar system?" Spock asked with an arc of one eyebrow.

"Essentially," I replied, tossing my apple in the air. I was struggling not to play with the car radio, mostly because I wasn't sure which knob was for the two-way and which knob would produce music.

"You do not seem bothered by this… turn of events," Spock observed.

Again, I offered a shrug. "I don't get riled up too easily. You'll want to take a right at the next intersection."

Spock made the turn. I finally bit into my apple, which was delicious yet unfortunate since Spock chose that exact moment to ask me a question.

"Correct me if this observation is incorrect," he began, "but would I be accurate in assuming you are not particularly 'riled up' about our impending interrogation?"

I chewed, swallowed, and leaned back into the seat. "Yep," I assented, "I am not worried one bit. You want to know why?" I took his silence as an agreement and continued. "For starters, it's not an interrogation. This guy is not a witness; he doesn't have any real connection to the case. He's just a consultant."

"I did not suggest otherwise," Spock defended uselessly, "what I meant by my previous statement was that we would be asking a series of questions –"

"Save it," I interjected. "You're the real agent; you don't have to explain yourself to me. The other reason I'm not worried is because I really trust this guy."

"The two of you are acquainted?" Spock inquired.

I shook my head. "Nah, I just have a good feeling about it."

"You have a shocking amount of faith in your own intuition," Spock noted. "May I inquire as to how you went about selecting an automobile expert?"

"Eh, I just borrowed one of the ad pages from a payphone down the street to throw darts at."

Spock's abbreviated eyebrows shot up to meet his hair. "You defiled a piece of public property to pick a mechanic for a high-profile murder case?"

I laughed through a mouthful of apple. "I'm joking, Spock. Lighten up a little." I poked him in the shoulder as a friendly gesture; at my touch he flinched away and I suddenly remembered reading once that Vulcan's don't view human contact very favorably.

Clearing my throat, I added, "Actually, I did call around; waste of a night if you ask me, but I did find one reliable business. A real reputable establishment."

"I believe you mean, 'It is a reputable establishment,' Mister Kirk," Spock corrected. "'Real reputable' is quite redundant, grammatically speaking."

"Potayto, potahto," I shrugged. "Take a left up here."

* * *

"This place looks good, right?" I asked optimistically as I stepped out of the parked car. Archer's Autos was on a nice lot, sort of on the edge of town but not out in the boondocks… so to speak. Other nondescript buildings lined the block a respectable distance away, leaving enough room for several handy parking lots.

"Indeed," Spock countered as he shut the driver's side door, "but I do not understand why you instructed me to drive down Russian Street. Not only did we previously discuss the hazard of the current driving conditions, but I am strongly inclined to believe that we could have improved our arrival time had we not taken your preferred route."

"What, Lombard Street?" I queried innocently. "That was just for fun. If I'm going to have you driving me around, I might as well make an adventure out of it."

"Indeed," Spock replied icily, "but I would prefer it if you would consult with me before you request making another excursion such as that."

The peaceful morning silence was broken by my barking laughter as I headed around the side of the building. Attached to the near side of garage was a cute little glass waiting area with a view of the lot's patch of grass and flagpole. Old red-white-and-blue quivered above us in the fog.

"Mister Kirk," Spock began as he followed me, "I believe visitors or appointment seekers are expected to wait in the designated area."

"The lobby?" I said, motioning behind us with my head. "Nah, Archer told me to come around back when we got here. Said someone would be waiting for us since we're coming before they open."

Before Spock could protest, I bent down and grabbed the bottom of the garage door we had stopped before, sending the slightly ajar flap to a height level with my head in one metallic swoop.

We wandered into the cluttered work space with a sense of apprehension, to say the least. I was immediately in awe of the towers of spare tires and engine pieces, reminded of the summer my step-father rebuilt a classic 1910 Mercer Raceabout. Of course, I had turned that into scrap metal in a matter of minutes, but it was admirable while it lasted.

"Mister Kirk, are you positive that Mister Archer has someone staffed to answer our questions at the present time?" Spock asked, breaking my reverie.

"Let me check," I replied, turning my attention back to the seemingly-deserted garage.

"HELLO," I shouted, sending Spock thirteen feet in the air. A faint rustling caught my attention; I tried again. "IS SOMEONE HERE?"

A booming clang rose from the back of the garage.

"_Piece a' shit engine!_" a heavily-accented voice exclaimed.

"Ah," I remarked, turning back to Spock, "that would be an affirmative."

"Thank you, Mister Kirk," Spock spat back. His sarcasm was improving already.

"Jus' a second!" the voice hollered again as its owner appeared from behind a beat-up looking Cadillac V-16. The man was decked out in a shabby jumpsuit and sporting grease streaks from tip to toe, neither of which seemed to be a cause of concern for him. On his head, perched at an interesting angle over his closely-cropped hair, was a tweed flat cap; as a whole, the ensemble kind of worked for him.

"Anythin' I ken do for ya', officers?" he asked as he produced from one of his pockets a cloth with which to clean off his hands. Noticing the way his eyes had widened on the final word, I realized he had no clue as to who we were until Spock had flashed his badge halfway through the mechanic's question.

"Yes, actually, I called earlier," I said, stepping around a pile of scraps and offering him my hand. "I'm Jim Kirk, Private Investigator, and this is Detective Spock from the SFPD."

"Really now?" the man – Scotty, if his nametag was to be trusted – asked with genuine curiosity as he shook my hand. "I kent for the life me remember talkin' to ya'."

"Oh, no, I talked to John Archer last night," I corrected.

"Ah, the Admiral!" Scotty exclaimed. "Great gent, 'specially for a boss, though I dunno what he was thinkin' when he asked me ta be here ta talk to ya'."

"He was probably thinking we'd want to talk to the best there is," I replied with what I hoped was a reassuring smile, clapping him on the shoulder. "Right, Spock?"

"From what I was able to surmise," Spock said, his hand clasped thoughtfully on his chin as he surveyed our surroundings, "you appear to be quite adequate. I supposed you're as good a person to talk to as any."

Scotty looked at me, lost for words. "Trust me, that's a compliment from him," I assured him.

"A Vulcan, is he?" Scotty observed quietly, though I wouldn't have been surprised if Spock's super-ears picked up on his question. I nodded in response. "Interestin'," Scotty commented, his mouth twitching upward slightly before he dropped the subject.

"Well gentlemen," he began, walking backwards toward a cleared area amidst the collection of car carcasses, "I am Mister Montgomery Scott, Scotty if ya' please, mechanic here at this fine establishment for about… four years now?" he estimated, his brow furrowing as he worked out the numbers in his head. "Time seems ta 'ave gotten away from me somewhere. One of the few good guys left 'ere."

"Oh yeah?" I asked. "How many guys does Archer have employed here currently?"

Scotty shrugged, looking a bit helpless. "Honestly, I dunno. Numbers been dwindlin' when they shoulda' been increasing after the war ended – now we only got one man on the first and last shift, so it's been a while since I had contact with another worker. I hafta admit," Scotty noted with a rueful glance around the place, "it would be a lot easier around here if I had an extra pair of hands."

At this, Spock sent me a strange look.

"He wants a helper," I whispered to him.

The questioning look in his eyes was quickly replaced with his usual emotionless gaze. "May I inquire as to your background, Mr. Scott?"

"I'm from Scotland, o' course!" Scotty said, a bit confused but grinning all the same.

"I meant your professional background," Spock corrected coldly.

"Oh," Scotty replied, his face falling slightly as if this subject wasn't as interesting to him. "Well, I did a few years at technical college but I'm mostly self-taught..." Spock's expression darkened at this. Scotty scratched his head, pausing to think for a minute before continuing to list his attributes. "Uh, I'm a quick learner, good at plannin' ahead, retainin' information an' learnin' new skills… um… used ta' dealin' with extreme temperatures an' exposure to gasoline an' asbestos an' such…"

I wasn't trying to be rude but I may have laughed at that job asset. I definitely did not envy this guy.

Spock sighed and shot me a look I couldn't quite decipher. Instead of shutting me up, his death glare prompted me to ask a question.

"What made you decide to enter the world of mechanics, Mister Scott?" I wondered, the formal address seeming slightly out of place.

"A Scotsman invented the first electric automobile," Scotty proclaimed jovially. "Way I see it I'm jus' carryin' on a tradition."

"Huh," I replied conversationally, "I did not know that."

"I can assure you, neither did I," Spock added a bit dubiously. Mentally, I willed him to humor our source; whether or not he would comply was up for debate.

"Now what was it ya' needed me ta' do for ya'?" Scotty asked us.

"If you wouldn't mind taking a look at some of these and telling us what you see," I replied, pulling a stack of photos from Spock's bag. Scotty glanced at them for a second before nodding his head towards a good-sized card table in the space near the center of the garage.

The contents of the metal table where quickly throw aside by the good mechanic and replaced with our case files.

"Can you tell us what that looks like?" I asked, pushing one particular photo across the table towards Scotty.

The overworked Scot pushed his cap back. "Skid marks," he replied thoughtfully, tilting the picture closer with two carefully placed fingers. "Pretty run-a'-the-mill. Picture quality coulda been better…" He tore his gaze from the photo to look at Spock and me. "There's no chance I could see this location in person, is there?"

I shook my head at the same time Spock spoke. "Negative. The area has been decontaminated; all evidence cleared, and is currently back in use by the property owners."

Scotty frowned at the picture in his hands. "Ya' got _any_ specifics?"

"Actually," I began before Spock could reply, "I jotted some details down on the back of my copy."

"Your copy?" Spock inquired, whipping his head around to stare at me.

"Of the photo," I clarified, pulling my handy notebook out of my coat pocket and removing from it an identical image of the crime scene. Fortunately the tire marks were still there when I did my private investigating. When I hopped on board with the official case, I realized they had a great deal more of information regarding circumstances and whatnot, so I had kept my mouth shut concerning the facts I had gathered prior to our case consolidation.

Wordlessly, the photograph exchanged hands; Scotty examined my writing on the back.

"Could we have discussed your knowledge of this earlier?" Spock hissed, his voice barely catching above the hanging silence.

"You knew I knew about the case," I countered calmly.

"Ya' wouldn't by any chance know what kind a pavement this is would ya'?" Scotty cut in.

"Portland cement," Spock replied as I opened my mouth to speak. He glanced over at me as I shut my jaw; I wasn't sure he was capable of feeling it, but his eyes seemed to dance with a certain degree of smugness.

"Huh," Scotty remarked before turning back to my handiwork.

"This is brash, Mister Kirk," Spock noted with a shake of his head. "I cannot agree with your methods."

"Look, buddy," I hissed back, trying to keep our conversation from the hard-working Scotty, who now appeared to be writing something on the table. "I didn't ask to be part of your operation."

"No," Spock stated, "but you could have denied Captain Pike's request as opposed to waltzing in here like the inconsiderate Midwestern know-it-all you are."

"Inconsiderate?" I exclaimed, my eyebrows shooting to the top of my head. Here I was, trying to tiptoe around his damn half-human feelings, trying to restrain myself from being overly cocky or arrogant, and to have him throw it in my face when I had been on my best behavior was unthinkable! "How have I been inconsiderate?"

"You made me drive down Russian Hill," Spock stated, looking not at me but at something past Scotty's shoulder.

"You've lived _here_ how long and you've never driven down it?" I countered. "And why do you keep calling it that?"

"Never driven down Lombard Street?" Scotty asked, entering our argument. "If that be the case, I would highly recommend it."

I smirked across the table at Spock, the tension between us dissolving like salt in water. "I like this guy already."

In reply, Scotty received a glare from my companion. "I'm thinkin' maybe I shoulda' stayed out of the argument," Scotty mumbled. I noticed that sometime during the discussion between Scotty and me he had picked up a lined legal pad and a pencil, the latter of which now stuck out from behind his ear.

"Now," he began, "since neither of ya' tol' me what exactly I was sup'osed ta be calculatin', I took the liberty of runnin' a few general numbers. Now accordin' ta both your files, ya' say here the marks were roughly a hundred an' thirty feet; if ya' look right there," he noted, coming dangerously close to poking the paper with the tip of his pencil, "ya can see a bit of a shadow skid, so I figure I kin add three feet or so ta that."

"Does a yard make that much of a difference?" I asked, eyeing the black marks on the dull gray pavement.

"Ya'd be su'prised," Scotty replied knowingly. "Don't touch that."

I looked down at my hand and silently pulled it away from the sandwich lying on the table still in its wrapper.

"So, on av'rage," he continued explaining, "plain ol' Portland cement gives a drag about point-nine, an' I'm guessin' the brakes are in good condition considerin' the darkness o' the tracks, so we take the square root a'…"

Scotty glanced up to look at Spock and me, my expression glazed, Spock's relatively impatient.

"The car was goin' about sixty miles an hour," Scotty stated plainly.

Spock and I looked at each other with a silent nod of understanding. For how much we got on each other's nerves, we were really quite agreeable… when neither of us was talking.

Scotty frowned down at his workspace and shuffled a few reference papers I figured came from Spock's file.

"I know an average speed won't give ya' much ta' go off of when yer lookin' for yer suspect's car," he admitted. He took the pencil up again and stabbed a random spot of the picture near one of the walls of the alley. "_That_, however, gives us a much better idea of the type of vehicle we're dealing with."

I tilted by head to get a better look at what he was pointing to. "That just looks like –"

"Graffiti," Spock finished for me. "Mostly cleaned off from what we gathered."

"Wrong," Scotty said with a shake of his head. "It's paint from your getaway car, judgin' from trajectory an' such. Mind ya' now, I don't know what _kind_ of paint, but I'm gonna guess it's black just for the sake a' simpleness. A bright color like red or blue woulda come up lighter in gradiation –"

"Wait, wait," I said, getting my hopes up already, "are you telling us all we need to look for is a black car with a scratch down the…" I paused to figure out the car's relation to the wall where the paint was. "…left side of it?"

The mechanic, now in his element, looked up at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Why tell you to look for that when I can dig up a few more specifics?"

Even Spock looked intrigued now.

"See the skid on the left?" Scotty began, prodding another part of the photo. "The tire marks overlap, but ya' ken pick out the front tire 'cuz a' the thin lines on the outsides."

Wordlessly, Spock and I nodded, almost knocking heads due to the fact that we were leaning over opposite sides of the table.

"So on this side, the skids veer off an' jump the curb, most likely due to the slope a' the street since ya' can't steer when ya' stall," Scotty explained, "but on the _right_ side, the tracks keep goin' straight."

We let this knowledge sink in for a moment.

"Independent suspension," Spock exclaimed, or he would have if he wasn't emotionally deprived.

"Exactly," Scotty confirmed, "but only in the front. An' since those tire marks are a tad darker than average, I'm guessing this car is fairly heavy, especially –"

"In the front," I finished. "I'm assuming you have a particular model in mind for us?"

The cunning Scot grinned back at me. "I'm thinkin' somethin' like a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Third series if I'm not mistaken."

"A Rolls-Royce?" I exclaimed, my eyebrows reaching my hairline once more. Even Spock looked disturbed.

"I have not studied the most current statistics, but I am fairly certain there are quite a limited amount of Rolls-Royce owners in San Francisco at the present time," he stated.

"Then this guy shouldn't be too hard to find, now should 'e?" Scotty asked us. He glanced down at his wristwatch. "Now, if you gents don't mind," he said, making a grab for his sandwich, "I believe I'll take an early lunch."

I looked at my own watch. "It's 9:15."

"Close enough," Scotty dismissed with a wave of his wrapper.

As Spock began the formalities necessary to wrap things up, I surveyed the garage one final time. Something struck me as being out of place, as if it needed to be acknowledged.

The object in question that finally caught my attention was a large mass covered in sheets tucked away in the corner behind the car Scotty had been working on when we came in.

"What's that?" I demanded, curiosity propelling my feet towards the covered bulk.

"Mister Kirk, I don't believe –" Spock began, but I had already ripped the cloth off the thing to reveal…

"What is this, exactly?" I asked, scratching the back of my head. On first glance, I thought it might be a modified telephone booth, but it was connected by a snarl of wires to several metal boxes stacked near it on the floor. A large coil dangled from the roof of the contraction and connected with a rusty car battery.

"That?" Scotty replied through a mouthful of sandwich. "It's my teleportation machine," he said, and he resumed eating his lunch as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Spock and I stared at him, dumbstruck. "Your what?" I asked again.

"Well it doesn't work jus' yet," Scotty replied as if he hadn't heard me repeat myself.

"Teleportation does not exist," Spock stated, almost at a loss for words as I suspected.

Scotty shrugged. "I said I was good at plannin' ahead."

"Yeah, _waaay_ ahead," I laughed, circling the machine. "This is incredible! Does it work?"

"A' course it doesn't work," Scotty replied bitterly. "It got me kicked out of engineering school though. Bloody ECPD dun't know a' work a genius in the making when they see it."

"Don't tell me," I said, "after you got kicked out, you took this job because it was the closest you could get to being an inventor without being broke."

"Bingo," Scotty replied, pointing his sandwich at me. "Finally someone besides the Admiral who gets it."

"Mister Archer allows you to work on this… _thing_ during your spare time?" Spock asked sounding mildly disgusted. "Your experiments are sanctioned by someone in an authority position?"

"What ken I say?" Scotty replied. "Archer's quite a forward thinker himself. Call it crazy," he continued with a smile, giving the side of his machine a loving knock, "but this doll 'as the potential to make some big changes in the world. Edison, eat your heart out!"

"Indeed," replied Spock. A brief moment of silence passed before I turned my attention away from him.

"How does it work?" I asked excitedly.

"Well that's the beauty a' the thing," Scotty began excitedly, coming over to where I stood by the door of the teleporter.

"Mister Kirk and I will leave you to your 'lunch' now, Mister Scott," Spock interjected. Giving Scotty a sad look, I gave in to Spock's request and began the walk to the garage exit.

"Hold up!" Scotty said, and Spock and I turned back to face him.

The mechanic pulled out a stack of papers from his pocket and rummaged through them. A moment later, he forked over a business card.

"Business has been a wee bit slow, as ya' can tell," he explained, "so, if you need anythin' else – _ever_ – let me know."

My grin was negated by Spock's scowl. "We'll be in touch, Mister Scott," Spock replied as I took the card.

* * *

"I think our first interview together didn't go so bad," I announced on the ride home, attempting to be positive.

"Hmm," was Spock's super-intelligent reply.

I sighed and thumped my palms on my half of the seat.

"All things considered, I am inclined to concur," he said after an awkward pause.

"'All things considered?'" I repeated to myself. No way was I going to make the mistake of asking him what he meant by that.

Instead, I stretched out on my half of the car. A grin wove its way across my face as I placed my hands behind my head in a gesture of relaxation I didn't quite feel.

"I could used to this," I said gleefully with a look at Spock. "Once more around the block, Jeeves!"

Ever the emotions expert, Spock inhaled sharply and gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Seriously, one of these days he was going to explode. I just hoped I wasn't around when the inevitable happened.

We cruised around the corner on the way to my apartment and passed the bar, which was looking quite lively for a weeknight. The sight saddened me slightly – the quiet nights were the best times to drag Bones up out of his lair for an evening of booze-fueled fun. I would sorely tempted to give him a ring even though he had already told me he would be working late tonight.

I gave the cozy little joint one final glance, and that's when I noticed it.

"Spock!" I shouted, pressing my nose to the window. "Stop the car!"

The detective hit the brakes, remembering to pull over to the side of the road, and we jolted forward in our seats.

"Do you see what I see?" I asked, not turning to look at my companion, but I gathered from his sharp intake of breath that he had followed my gaze.

It, of course, was a rather intimidating-looking Rolls-Royce Phantom, third series if I wasn't mistaken. Its shiny black exterior would have contrasted rather smartly with its white-ringed tires if not for the almost-unnoticeable scratch down the driver's side. It was parked with the top down a few spots away from the entrance to the bar, the inanimate object exuding an air of superiority

"Aw, man," I said, giving car a better look, "why can't these guys ever drive cute little Volkswagens or something for a change?"

Spock, probably confused by my generalization, raised one eyebrow but remained otherwise motionless. We shared a look before I turned away and popped the lock on my door.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink right about now," I exclaimed, leaning back into the door frame to see how Spock reacted.

"This plan may be in our best interest but I fear for the safety Officer Uhura's cover," Spock protested, nevertheless exiting the auto as he spoke.

"Uhua's working here tonight?" I asked before I could catch myself. I seemed to recall being warned about crossing paths with her case… "That doesn't matter. She's a big girl, she can handle it."

"If you insist," said Spock, coming around the front of the car to walk in with me.

**A/N**: I spent my weekend doing research for this, especially on what kind of training/certification an auto mechanic should have, but a lot of those types of programs weren't founded until the '70s, so it didn't give me much to use. However, if anyone is curious, I have links to pictures and sources regarding the cars mentioned in this chapter.


	4. Kiss Me Deadly

**A/N**: Once again, thanks for the awesome reviews, you guys! Hope you enjoy the latest installment; I was in sort of a rush to get it finished, so please let me know if you find any mistakes.

**Chapter Four**

**Kiss Me Deadly**

The heel of Spock's shoe had barely passed the threshold before the regulars started to talk amongst themselves.

"Have you ever been to a bar before?" I asked my partner as we stood awkwardly by the entrance. A burly man at a table near us did a double-take; if these people thought I was loony before when I was just bringing Bones in, they must have thought I was certifiable now.

"I don't believe I have," Spock replied after a moment of thought. "I have never had much reason to socialize in such manner."

"So I gathered," I mumbled, cringing at how I was starting to sound like the guy. Shaking the Spock-speak from my mind, I did a quick scan of the bar.

Through thick clouds of smoke, I could make out the forms of several waitresses, clad in uniforms of white long-sleeve button-ups and black knee-length skirts. Most of them passed through a set of swinging doors, nearly hidden in the back, into the connected area reserved for formal dining. The rest of them scattered throughout the bar, taking orders from patrons too lazy (or too otherwise occupied) to walk across to the bar to get drinks.

I caught a glimpse of black hair swishing and black pumps clicking, and when I looked back, Officer Uhura's unflinching gaze met mine, asking us just what the hell we were doing here.

Spock shifted uncomfortably. If Uhura could make even Mr. Emotionless flinch in fear, I figured only God (and possibly Captain Pike) could know what kind of other-worldly power she was capable of.

As she sauntered away, I followed her swaying hips with my eyes. It was unbelievable – the most gorgeous dame in the world lived in San Francisco, and she wouldn't even give me the time of day. I guess I shouldn't complain; after all, I did get to see her every day at 'work,' which gave me more than enough time to appreciate her luscious–

Mister Kirk?" Spock said, derailing my train of thought. "Perhaps we should find an adequate place to be positioned."

"Right," I agreed, shaking my head and hoping he meant we should find a place to sit.

Without realizing it, I headed in the direction of Uhura's table. I nearly grabbed for Spock's wrist to ensure that he was following me, but I figured I had already reached my limit of making physical contact today. When I thought about it, wrist-grabbing seemed downright scandalous; hopefully he would forgive me the shoulder poke in the car.

A man at one of the tables leaned back in his chair just as I was about to walk past him. I stopped abruptly, Spock nearly bumping into me, and snapped my eyes up.

Across the room, seated at the table Uhura had been at only moments ago, was one of the scariest-looking thugs I had ever seen. Bald – whether by choice or by nature I had no clue – and hulking, the man was staring directly at Spock and me, a vicious smirk forming on his lips. Given the tattooing on his forehead, I mentally labeled him the leader of some sort of gang before realizing his ears were pointed and his eyebrows slanted upwards much like my partner's.

"Spock," I whispered, moving my mouth as little as possible. "Who is that?" The rest of his posse, most of which looked like they could snap my spine with their bare hands, was now taking turning stealing glances at us, which sent a slight shiver up my spine.

"You do not know them?" he replied, cocking his head. "I assumed they were friends of yours based on the fact that they appear to be waiting for you to join them."

"Waiting for me?" I repeated, turning to face Spock. "I've never seen that guy before in my life!"

The man whose chair had blocked our path cleared his throat, clearly indicating he had heard enough of our prattle.

"Well," I said loudly and to no one in particular, "I suppose we shouldn't keep them waiting then."

"I'm not sure I follow, Mister Kirk," Spock replied.

"Well you should," I remarked flippantly as I resumed walking confidently towards the table of thugs.

As Spock and I drew near, the chatter around us increased. The burly men-alien things gave each other the occasional knowing shove and derisive chortle; the only member who remained still and silent was their intimidating leader, who continued to look me directly in the eyes.

A few short yards away, I felt one of the waitresses bump into me. As I turned slightly to apologize, the woman gave my jacket a violent tug, pulling me backwards and ramming me into an empty table.

Shocked, I turned back to face an impassive Uhura. "Whoops," she said with a shrug and a glance before continuing on her way, her tray loaded with drinks.

Confused, I took a step forward. Uhura did also, her ponytail swishing menacingly.

I took another step towards her table and Uhura crossed my path, directly cutting me off.

Silently, she gave me another dark look. Through the smoke I swore I saw her head move slightly, a shake warning me not to go there, and her arm twitched, her fingers almost brushing against Spock's sleeve before she pulled it away.

Giving her a fleeting glance, I jerked my head around to face a rather concerned-looking Spock, hands clasped behind his back attentively.

"Come on," I said hoarsely, "let's go this way." Retracing our path, I led Spock back to the bar where we nabbed two stools in the middle of the row.

"I must admit, I am not entirely sure what just happened with Officer Uhura," Spock commented after our drinks had been ordered.

"That makes two of us," I added with a scoff, hoping he wasn't expecting me to have an answer for him. "What are those guys?"

"Romulans, if I am not mistaken," Spock replied. "A distant relative of the Vulcan race." The bartender set a pair of whiskey shots down with a thunk and promptly ignored us.

"Another species to share your freaky, logical tendencies with?" I wondered as I took a drink, trying to gather information in case I _did_ find myself trying to make conversation with one of those guys in the near future.

"On the contrary," Spock explained, sliding his glass around but not really drinking. "Romulans are known for the cunning and passion, frequently searching for opportunities to better themselves and their race."

"So, they're ruthless," I translated for myself, and Spock didn't correct me.

"They are, in many ways," Spock said solemnly after a pause, "the polar opposite of the Vulcan race."

"Ruthless, illogical, emotion-management issues," I listed before an involuntary shudder overtook me, whether from the thought of scary Romulans or from the aftertaste of my beverage I didn't know. "I think I'm starting to see why Uhura cut us off."

"Still, that does not excuse her improper social conduct," Spock stated, looking deathly serious while staring off into space.

"Improper social conduct?" I laughed. "All right, you really haven't ever been to a bar before." I chuckled to myself again, and something behind my eye started to twitch. Suddenly feeling a little paranoid, I replayed the scene in my head.

_Uhura shook her head, a warning for me to step back. Only she wasn't looking at me… she was looking _past_ me. With something in her eyes like worry or… it couldn't be… love?_

_Her fingers almost brushed against Spock's sleeve before she forced them away…_

"Oh shit," I hissed. Uhura was in love with Spock. It was as simple as that.

I looked over at my partner. Fortunately, he wasn't paying attention to me. _Un_fortunately, several of the people around us _were_ paying close attention to him. _Pshh_, I thought,_ like he's that interesting_.

Newly confused, not to mention frustrated, I turned back just in time to stop a mysterious hand from snaking my drink away.

"Hey, whoa!" I interjected, my arm shooting out and clenching around my assailant's slim, green wrist. As this realization sunk in, I slowly brought my gaze upwards and was pleasantly surprised.

"Come here often?" the Orion woman asked. A pearly, perfect white smile dominated her fine features, dark hair swirling to meet her shoulders in a trendy wave fashion. A sinfully black dress draped her curves, and despite being acquainted with several women of her species, I swore I had never seen her before. I'd have to remember to ask Gaila about this one… on second thought, maybe not.

As I released her, my hand brushed against hers, and I could have sworn I felt something small and round, almost pill-like clenched between two of her fingers. I shrugged it off as residual paranoia – a woman this stunning surely wouldn't need to drug a guy to get him to notice her – and looked back up at her.

Before I could reply, the green woman suddenly looked suspicious, cocking her head to the side slightly in an adorably coquettish fashion. "Don't I know you?" she asked, pursing her lips.

"Um, no," I replied, laughing slightly due to my nerves. "I don't think so."

"Yes," she insisted with a brilliant smile, "I think I do."

"I really don't –" I started to counter, hoping against hope she wouldn't out me as a private detective in front of the whole bar. Sure, most of them already knew who I was, but this Romulan crew could cause some serious trouble with that type of knowledge.

"You're that actor, the new guy in town," the green woman exclaimed, and I let out a small sigh of relief. Tonight was turning out to be my lucky night. Well, except for that whole Uhura-loves-Spock thing.

"Well, you got me," I lied, lacing my voice with what I hoped was sheepishness. I never had much use for that emotion, but it was worth a shot. "I'm, um, Thad Wabasha." I extended my hand to her.

"Wow," she replied, shaking my hand in awe and giving me another look over, "it really is you. It's so nice to meet you, by the way."

"Well," I said, channeling all my charm, "it's not so bad to meet someone such as yourself either."

The woman giggled charmingly but made no move towards introducing herself. This didn't concern me as much as it should have. I needed some attention of the female variety after being snubbed by Uhura. Plus, this dame thought I was famous! How could this possibly work out any better?

The Orion leaned in closer with a slight smirk and a whole lot of cleavage.

"Who's your friend?" she asked coyly, winking at someone farther down the bar.

I glanced over my shoulder then did a double-take. Spock was now invested in our conversation, apparently waiting for my reply to her question.

Jumping to the conclusion that this sexy dame had winked at my partner, my blood began to boil. It was bad enough that Uhura was smitten; I didn't need him and his stupid pointy ears competing with me for every woman present.

Cockily turning my back on Spock, I faced the green woman and said the first thing I could think of.

"Alvin," I stated, accenting my words. "His name is Alvin, and he is my agent."

I felt Spock twitch behind me, and I prayed to God that he wasn't preparing to pinch my nerves or whatever it was that Vulcans did to people who angered them.

"Huh," the lady replied, her forehead wrinkling mildly. "Are there a lot of Vulcans in the film industry?"

"Oh absolutely!" I exclaimed. I took the risk of turning toward my partner and slinging an arm over his shoulder for effect. "As you know," I said, attempting to stall Spock from talking, "Vulcans are known for their decision-making, which proves very useful for aspiring actors when choosing a film in which to appear."

"So," the green woman summarized after a beat, "you chose him because he makes the most logical film choices?"

"Bingo," I affirmed, pointing and grinning at her. Spock's head looked like it was about to explode.

"Well," the woman said with a smile and pointed look up and down both of us, "I'll bet you could both use some company." She titled her head to the side to indicate something across the room. "Let me go talk to my… 'associates' and see if you can join us."

I wrinkled my brow in confusion before looking in the direction she had noted. As I should have suspected, her 'associates' were the group of Romulans Uhura was waiting on. On second thought, _this_ was how it could work out even better.

I surprised all of us by smiling. "Sounds swell," I replied. With one final flirtatious glance, the green woman slid off her stool and strolled across the bar.

"'Alvin,' Mister Kirk?" was the first question out of Spock's mouth once she was out of earshot.

"I don't know what kind of names you have," I hissed, "you're the first Vulcan I've ever met!" This outburst earned me another raised eyebrow but thankfully no scathing remark.

"You do realize that regardless of your apparent suspicions, this could end poorly, for everyone involved," he said, phrasing so that I shouldn't doubt his meaning.

Instead of agreeing, I finished my whiskey and slammed it down on the counter without as much as a shudder.

"I don't believe in no-win scenarios," I stated, looking Spock square in the eyes.

Behind me, I heard someone politely clear her throat, and Spock and I turned at the same time to face the returned Orion.

"Shall we?" she said, smiling and inviting us across the room with one gorgeously green arm. I looked at Spock once more before getting to my feet, hoping he would follow suit. He did, and I thanked him silently, hoping he was better at interpreting emotions than he was at conveying them.

We left our drinks where they were and followed the green woman through the clouds of smoke to the corner where her 'friends' sat, awaiting our arrival. Again, most of the Romulans were laughing amongst themselves and jostling one another. This time, however, their leader had eyes only for the green woman, who promptly took a seat at his side. Spock and I edged our way around the table so that we sat against the wall. In retrospect, that was probably not the smartest decision in seating, but I really didn't want Scary Romulan Head-Honcho staring at us the whole time.

He stared anyway.

"Nero," the green woman said, "This is Thad Wabasha –" At my alias's introduction, I waved. "– and his agent Alvin. Thad, Alvin, this is Nero, from the planet Romulus." Head-Honcho Romulan nodded in acknowledgement.

"Romulus, eh?" I said cheerily. "What brings you to our fine planet?"

Nero sighed through his nose as if thinking about it pained him. "My crew and I were sent here by our government on an exploration mission several months ago. However, our spacecraft was damaged upon entry and we have lost all contact with our planet leaders."

Lacking a proper condolence since I had barely just met the guy, I let my gaze linger on his drink, a strange blue-looking ale. After a sufficient pause, I looked back up at Nero with a semi-hopeful, semi-sorry-please-continue look.

I must have nailed it because he kept talking, his gaze growing distant. "On the day we departed, my wife informed me that she was expecting a child… Every day, I am reminded of her, and the promise I made to return to Romulus safely…"

"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied, though really I was glad that I still had a chance with the Orion girl since Nero was hitched.

"While I sympathize for your current situation, Mister Nero," I heard Spock begin, "I feel I must inquire as to whether or not you are the owner of a third series Rolls-Royce Phantom." Silently, I groaned; _Way to cut to the chase, pal_, I thought.

This question certainly snapped Nero out of his daze, and he turned to look at my partner with a slow-building anger in his eyes. "What did you say?" Several of the various Romulan guys stopped their talking to watch their boss.

"I inquired as to whether you drive a Rolls-Royce," Spock reiterated, determination crossing his features.

"Yes," Nero spat, growing defensive as he leaned forward menacingly, "and why would you care to know?"

"It's, uh, it's a great-looking car, that's why!" I cut in, shooting Spock a quick glare before continuing. "So what have you guys been doing here in San Fran to pass the time?"

The Romulans resumed their personal arguments as Nero leaned back in his chair and looked at me warily. "We work for various organizations. Most of us have secured jobs as flight mechanics for Hikaru Sulu."

At the introduction of this foreign-sounding name, I turned to Spock for an explanation.

"Mister Sulu is a locally acclaimed pilot, renowned for his superior skills at such a relatively young age," Spock stated. "He was recently recruited by the San Francisco branch of Pan American World Airways to fly a shift in their commercial cross-continental circuit."

Glancing back at Nero, I noticed he was stroking his chin with one hand in a knowing manner. "You've never heard of Hikaru Sulu?" he asked curiously.

I shrugged impishly. "What can I say? I'm still pretty green about town."

"I'll say," Nero remarked. He looked around the bustling room before turning back to Spock and me conspiratorially. "The thing is, there's something fishy about that guy."

"Fishy?" I asked. "What do you mean, fishy?"

"For starters, he's a Jap," Nero stated, and I flinched a little at the term, which I was hoping would be outdated already. As you might have guessed, I wasn't a big fan of the most recent world war, partly because I hadn't been drafted, but that's another story.

"So?" I said nonchalantly, not particularly liking where this was going.

"How many Asians do you know in California who weren't rounded up during the war?"

Spock and I looked at each other as if seriously contemplating it. "Um, none?" I replied.

"Sulu wasn't," Nero stated, "and on top of that, he's already got his job back, flying planes for an international company."

"Oh…kay," I said, not really sure I followed. It was sort of a consolation that Spock looked as confused as I did.

"What I'm saying," Nero continued, "is that he has an in with someone, someone who means serious business. I'd bet even that saintly old Roosevelt of yours would have agreed with that."

"All right," I said, a little confused by the reference to our former president, "so you think some of this Sulu business is suspicious, but what has he ever done to you?"

"Easy," Nero replied, moments away from taking a drink. "He borrowed my Royce and brought it back all dinged up."

"Wait, he borrowed your car?" I interjected. The car was the only thing we had that tied Nero to the case. If it turned out someone else had been using it…

"Sure," the Romulan replied, setting down his drink, "a few times lately. Fly boy's been having some sort of car trouble lately, so I generously offered my own ride."

"Do you remember when exactly?" I asked, enthusiasm getting the better of me. "Like what days he had it or where he said he was going or anything like that?"

"Why is it so important to you, _Thad_?" Nero wondered. "What use does an actor like you have for dates and places and who's been driving a Romulan mechanic's car?"

"Right," I said, gritting my teeth, "sorry to be wasting your time."

"I believe Mister Wabasha was merely acting upon his excitement," Spock lied smoothly. "He is, after all, quite new in town."

"Nobody asked for your opinion, Vulcan!" one of Nero's friends shouted at us.

From all around the bar, pairs of eyes began to focus upon my partner; whether or not he realized it I couldn't say. Spock didn't seem to notice how closely everyone human had finally started to stare; heck, he was probably used to it if he had been here long enough to go through the police academy.

"I was merely stating an observation," Spock defended politely. "I was attempting to help Mister Wabasha 'save face,' as I believe you say." Nero nodded in response but kept his gaze fixed on the Vulcan.

"Speaking of face," began another Romulan who had circled the table to stand on the opposite side of us, "haven't I seen you before? I can't say I know many of your type here in San Francisco. As a matter of fact, you don't see many Vulcans anywhere outside of the desert areas."

As my intestines started tying themselves into knots due to this guy's apparent knowledge of Spock's day job, my partner surprised me yet again with another lie.

"I also have not been in the city long," Spock stated, looking off into the distance before snapping his attention back to the questioning Romulan. "I do not believe I was the one of which you speak. As I'm sure you know, we Vulcans have a tendency to appear similar in facial construction to the untrained eye."

At this more of Nero's crew gathered around us, causing me to curse picking our seats all those moments ago. I happened to glance over at the green woman, who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle as much as her male comrades. I made a mental note to never fall for a trap like that again… if I could help it.

"The untrained eye, huh?" a new Romulan asked Spock with a derisive laugh. "Listen to this mook, tryin' to show how much smarter than us he is. You Vulcans always like to think you're so high and mighty, waving your knowledge around like you're Surak himself." I had no idea what he was talking about, but the rest of the gang seemed to find it funny.

"You're one to talk," I rebuffed, growing angry on my partner's behalf. "Romulans are like, what, a genetic sequence away from Vulcans?" I prayed on behalf of science that I was at least in the ballpark with that estimate.

A different Romulan, this one even bigger than the last, leered across the table at me. "Are you trying to insult us, Hollywood, or our intelligence? We may share a common ancestor, but we Romulans are nothing like your snivelly little friend, mentally or scientifically."

"Well then that must explain why he isn't acting like a total heathen," I replied without thinking.

While I'm no mathematician, I've found that nine times out ten when I talk without thinking in a bar, something very bad happens. This time, said bad thing was a severely-pissed off Romulan lunging across a tipsy table directly at me.

Sliding down at the last moment, I heard the thug above me crash into the wall with a sickening crunch. I shot up, overturning the flimsy table in the process, and the glasses went flying.

During the brief pause before I got jumped, I glanced quickly at where I had been sitting a second ago with a sense of panic. Fortunately, Spock had managed to escape and hadn't ended up trapped under my wreck. Turning around, I caught of glimpse of his sullen face and Uhura's dark eyes, the pair of them watching from afar. I gave them a brief thumbs-up.

The next thing I knew, someone's fist was in my face and the taste of copper flooded my mouth. With a mighty "oof," I took a step backwards before leaping right back into the melee.

Arms and hands and boots were flying in every direction and made it impossible for me to tell up from down or left from right. A random set of fingernails raked across my face, causing me to elbow one of the thugs in the stomach. I released a mean left jab with my eyes closed and heard a shout as it connected with something bony.

I tilted forward violently and took the risk of opening my eyes once more. While the rest of his gang was occupied fighting me tooth and nail, Nero sat perfectly still in his original spot. I swore I could see something like gears turning in his head as he watching us, not maliciously but with an expression more like fascination.

Leaping across a pair of struggling tattoo-heads, I charged for their leader, hoping to throw the rest of the fighters off guard and allow for my escape.

My plan failed when, mid-jump, I found myself suspended in the air, the front my shirt cutting off my air supply. I thrashed my legs around for a good thirty seconds before my heel knocked against a shin. Released, I made my way forward only to be stopped once more.

"Come on, pretty boy," one of the thugs growled, picking me up by the jacket collar, and faster than I could say "Romulan bastard," I being thrown out of the bar into the dark side alley. With a whoosh of cold air and a thump, I landed on my back; staring up in surprise, I realized Spock had followed us and was now standing over me, his eyebrows knit together slightly more than usual. I coughed to let him know I was still alive, and he backed up a few feet.

"Okay, _that_ guy," I said, standing up to dust the alley grit off my clothes, "_that's _my new suspect."

Spock sighed in frustration. "I see no obvious or probable connection between Mr. Nero and our case."

"I'm sure we could find one!" I insisted, my words spattered with blood.

"'We,' Mr. Kirk?" Spock asked, giving me an odd glance.

"Yeah, you know, we're a team, we're equals, right?" I asked, sounding a little too eager. I got silence and another funny look from my 'partner.'

"Kirk!" a voice exclaimed from far away. The door burst open and Uhura rushed outside to join us.

"Aw, did you miss me?" I asked her cheekily even though my heart still stung from the knowledge of her true secret love. "Come to tend to my battle wounds?"

"_What the hell was that_?" she demanded, standing next to Spock with her hands planted on her hips. "You think you can just waltz into the bar that _I'm_ undercover at and start a fight with _my_ suspect –"

"Whoa, whoa," I interjected, motioning for her to stop with my hands. "_Your_ suspect?"

Exasperated, she threw an arm back in the direction of the door. "Nero is the main suspect in the case I'm working. I'll enlighten you some time if Pike hasn't fired your ass by tomorrow."

"Nero is already the main suspect of a case?" I restated, resting my chin on my hand in an unconscious imitation of Spock. "Fascinating…"

"Can he even hear me?" Uhura asked, turning to Spock for help.

"I suspect Mister Kirk has taken a serious blow to the head, if not several," Spock replied humorlessly. "Perhaps it would be in his best interest to seek medical attention of some sort at the present time."

"What about you?" Uhura went on, tentatively reaching out for my partner. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Don't worry about me," I said, ignoring her sickening sentiments directed at Spock. "I'll be fine." To prove how stable I was, I got up and started towards the opposite side of the street in the direction I assumed Spock's squad car was. I got as far as the curb before stumbling and falling down.

As I let out a groan, I heard the door above me creak open.

"Hey, girlie," an unpleasant male voice said, "I know you ain't a regular, but those tables aren't going to bus themselves!" There was a collective silence before he added, "What's this guy's problem?"

"I'm _fine_, no thanks to these two," I mumbled into the concrete before pushing myself back up to a standing position. "You should really look into being more selective about who you let your bar. It's always people like me who end up getting drugged or bleeding to death in the gutters." Okay, so that was quite an exaggeration, but hopefully it would get a reaction from Mister Hotshot Boss.

"It's people like you who are constantly damaging my property!" the manager guy said, jabbing a finger in my direction and completely missing my hints about Nero and company.

"Oh, screw you, buddy!" I exclaimed before storming off, almost swearing I saw a smirk flit across the half-Vulcan's face.

**A/N**: That's right; Nero's playing the blame game. Silly Romulan… And why Alvin? It was the dorkiest name I could think of, plus it had a V in it (V for Vulcan!). I got Wabasha from the town in "Grumpy Old Men" since it's quite Midwestern, don'tcha know? Also, shameless post-chapter plug; this "Star Trek 2009" video makes me laugh every single time I watch it, so you might get a kick out of it, too. It's called "Nero Said We're Wack" and the YouTube URL is /watch?v=k1ZowuGGa7M


	5. Vertigo

**A/N:** Hey, remember this story? The other day in my writing class, my professor started talking about how important it is for a writer to do their research, and for an example he used someone writing a story set in the 1940s. I feel like he was reminding me to update. Again, thanks for all the crazy/wonderful reviews! I was afraid I'd written myself into a corner, and then my flash drive up and died, but it's all better now and I think this chapter came together alright. This is it, you guys, the halfway point; only five more chapters to go! (Now that I write that, it kind of seems like a lot though.)

**Chapter Five**

**Vertigo**

"Jesus, kid, what did they do to you?" the good doctor - who apparently was not much of a morning person - grumbled as he knotted off the thread he was working into my forehead. "I'm telling you now, get out while you can."

"I can't leave now," I said, looking up balefully at Bones. "I heard one of the guys talking about this thing called a microwave oven and how the station might be on the waiting list for one."

Bones took a minute to ponder this latest development. "Tempting, but no - don't get involved."

"I'm already too involved," I persisted.

"Of course you're already too involved," he griped, "you're James Tiberius Kirk."

"Hey!" I yelped, jumping a little as he tugged on a stitch. "Don't play the middle name card."

McCoy put down the gauze and tape he had started to pick up. "You know, I think that open wound on your head will heal just fine by itself…"

"Okay, Bones, please," I begged, "I'm sorry! Don't make me file a malpractice suit."

"With an open head wound," McCoy stated, coming back to me with the gauze and tape for the finishing touches, "I would think you'd be more concerned about something along the lines of meningitis."

"I'm more afraid of you and your fancy medical jargon," I said, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue.

"Don't get me started on you and your stupid police lingo," Bones fired back with equal sarcasm. "So, back to this Spock and Uhura thing you were telling me about." I groaned aloud, and Bones slapped a piece of medical tape onto my forehead. "Do they have anything in common?"

"Well, Lazy Bones," I replied, "they're both cops."

"That's not what I meant," he noted stubbornly.

"They both have only one name," I insisted with equal stubbornness.

"Cadet Uhura?" Bones snorted. "Oh no, she has a first name."

"Really? Wait, how do you know?" Bones fixed me a gaze that said he was re-evaluating my stupidity. "Oh right, medical records," I amended. "What is it?"

His reply was cut short by Nurse Chapel poking her adorable head around the corner.

"Doctor McCoy," she ventured, "there's someone here to see your patient."

Bones raised an eyebrow and gave me a strange look. I shrugged back. "Who is it?" he asked, still glaring at me.

"Detective Spock," she replied, growing a bit rosy. "He said he figured Kirk would be here and that he would need a ride."

"He figured right," I noted happily.

Bones made a disgruntled noise in my direction before turning to Christine. "Tell that _Vulcan_ that my patient requires further medical attention and will be with him as soon as possible."

Chapel nodded as if startled before exiting the room in a daze, a strange yet familiar smile forming on her face.

I looked back at Bones. "Oh no," I whined, "not Spock."

"I'm surprised it took you so long to figure it out," Bones replied gruffly, folding his arms across his chest. "It all started when that damn cop came by earlier in the case to pick up some medical records for the victims…"

"Aw man, not her too," I repeated. Bones' eyebrows shot up to his forehead. "Not that I like her like that," I clarified, "I just don't get what they see in him."

"Beats the hell out of me," McCoy responded. "Now, as much as I hate to hand you over to the hobgoblin, I suppose there's not much left for me to patch up, so get your ass out there and do some real work for a change."

I stood up, wobbling slightly before righting myself on the edge of the counter when Bones wasn't looking. "Thanks, McCoy," I said, slapping him on the shoulder, "you're the best."

"And don't you forget it," he agreed as I let the door swing shut behind me.

* * *

In retrospect, it probably would have been a lot more effective to give Spock the cold shoulder if he wouldn't have been _a freakin' Vulcan_. For some reason my tiny brain and I had decided to best way to deal with my partner was to cross my arms, zip my lips and stare out the windshield on the ride out to… wherever we were going. I didn't bother to ask where we were headed and he didn't bother to offer an answer, so silence prevailed in the car… at least until I moved to turn on the radio in an effort to combat my imploding brain.

"Don't touch that."

My fingers were literally a half inch from one of the knobs when Spock's curt tone cut through my haze. I didn't move. "Don't touch that knob," he repeated, "you have no idea what it does."

"I think if I turn it," I replied, "I'll have a pretty good idea what it does."

I glanced up to see Spock's freaky eyebrows – and eyes – glowering down at me in the rearview mirror. I withdrew my arm and slumped back in my seat. "So where are we going?"

"I believe our destination is referred to as Bay Meadows," Spock replied, his brow furrowing almost uncertainly.

"Bay Meadows?" I repeated, my eyebrows opposing his by jumping up my forehead. "The racetrack?" Why the heck would we be going to a horse-racing venue? More importantly, would said racing venue remember a certain boisterous blond who helped bust a gambling ring last year but later made off with a generous amount of dough (which for the record was won completely legally)?

"Negative," Spock stated, "the Bay Meadows Airport, although I will concede that the racetrack is in close proximity."

I frowned. "Why are we going to… oh. Oh no," I groaned, realization kicking in. "Don't tell me we're taking that crazy Romulan's 'clue.'"

Spock continued to stare out the windshield, ignoring my glare. "Would you care to suggest a better lead for us to pursue, Mister Kirk?"

"Yes," I snapped, then shook my head. "No. I don't know!"

"Then would you care to explain why it is you persist in the belief that Mister Nero has lied to us about his boss's involvement?" Spock offered coldly.

"Come on, Spock, we know that guy is bad news," I countered. "He's obviously covering his own trail. I didn't know who that Sulu guy was, Nero saw an opportunity to push the blame off of him and he took it!"

"If that is case," Spock said, snapping his eyes away from the road for one second to meet my gaze, "then I suggest you retrieve some evidence of your own and prove it."

I opened my mouth in anger before quickly closing it. "Right," I muttered, nodding as if in a trance. "You're right." I sat back in my seat and inhaled deeply, letting the silence build around us for a moment before opening my mouth once again.

"Question," I began. "Assuming we're about the same age, how are you half human if aliens didn't land on Earth until last summer?"

In the blink of an eye, Spock reached out and flicked a switch on the dashboard, bringing the radio to life and effectively silencing me.

* * *

One excruciating half an hour later, I found myself stepping out onto a dusty parking lot in San Mateo. The racetrack behind us was closed, though I couldn't have told you the reason why. The unpaved parallel runways were also blissfully quiet; I glanced up, expecting to see at least a sign of flight but instead saw a mass of gray clouds bunching overhead. Confused by the unusual weather, I reached out and unconsciously tugged on Spock's coat.

My partner swung around. "Mister Kirk?" he said, his brown eyes surveying me as if worried.

Whatever thoughts had been in my head passed as quickly as the dark clouds, and within moments I found myself blinking in defense against a particularly bright beam of sunlight.

"It's nothing," I finally replied, shaking my head to clear the remnants of the feeling I had just experienced.

Looking up to my left I spied two hangars surrounded by almost twenty planes. "Jeez," I noted, "for all these planes there seems to be a serious lack of pilots."

"I made arrangements to visit with Mister Sulu while you were being attended to by Doctor McCoy this morning," Spock replied as we started towards the nearest open hangar. "He is currently being interviewed for some type of aviation publication but I believe he will answer our questions once the reporter is finished."

"Huh," I said, staring out at the silent span of asphalt and field. "So please enlighten me, Inspector. Who exactly is this Sulu guy and why haven't I heard of him before?"

I could tell without looking that Spock was giving me a death glare for accidentally calling him "Inspector" but he answered my questions anyway.

He sighed. "As you may recall, I stated last night that Mister Hikaru Sulu is an American pilot of Japanese heritage. He is regionally known for his piloting skills, which many believed to be superior to those of local men twice his age even before our country's involvement in the recent World War. Despite his family's animosity towards the government, he has currently gained notice for being the first Asian-American to join and be recognized by the International Civil Aviation Organization which was founded back in April. He is also the first Asian-American to be hired by the San Francisco branch of Pan American World Airways following the aforementioned war. "

"You certainly did your research," I noted, not even bothering to hide how impressed I was. "I'm sure you have some additional insight as to why he was protected from our country's internment camps?"

"I have particular theories," Spock sniffed, and I thought for a moment I saw a greenish tint across his cheeks.

"Shoot," I commanded.

"Well," Spock began, "there is the popular theory spread by your human race in the concurrent area that Mister Sulu simply talked his way out of it. He _is_ known to be quite charismatic… or so I'm told," he corrected.

"Nah, that sounds _too_ simple," I grimaced. "I doubt anyone could sweet talk their way out of Executive Order 9066, race regardless."

"This is precisely how I feel on the subject," Spock nodded, "which is why I suspect he was protected by someone of a higher authority, a resident of this area…" He turned to give me a pointed look; I merely scratched my head so he cleared his throat and continued. "I believe Captain Pike paid an important visit to the Bay Meadows area several years prior to this day…"

I stopped in my tracks. "Wait, you think Pike had hand in this camp dodging situation?"

"While I realize the he is not in charge, per se, of the government here, he would seem an excellent candidate for protecting the innocent even when his beliefs clashed with the law."

"Since he is the law," I muttered under my breath.

"Detractors comment that Mister Sulu was hiding out somewhere in California during the war," Spock continued. "I believe that he was hiding in plain sight. Of course," he added "I do realize the implications of this theory on Captain Pike and his position with the local and-or national government system…"

"Suggesting Pike has governmental sway…" I repeated aloud. "Makes sense." Spock quirked an eyebrow at me though I couldn't tell whether it was for agreeing with his theory or suggesting his boss was in cahoots with D.C.

"Stranger things have happened," I reiterated with a shrug. "Just out of curiosity, you wouldn't know what happened to the rest of the Sulu family would you?"

Spock resumed walking in the direction of the open hangar, and I briskly followed suit. "I believe the rest of Mister Sulu's immediate and extended family currently resides in Japan. While they do appear to be close, it seems as if Mister Sulu has been distanced from his relatives due to their feelings concerning the Pacific and Second World Wars."

"Huh? Oh, that's nice. Hey look, a Kobayashi Maru!" I exclaimed, pointing at the plane hidden in the far corner. "Can I drive?"

"Considering your lack of a pilot's license, I am inclined to say 'no,'" Spock replied.

"So where are you from, Mr. Sulu?" we heard the smug reporter ask though we were still a ways off from the shadowed figures. "China? Japan?"

"I'm from San Francisco," I heard the young pilot stated somewhat indignantly.

"Sounds like someone didn't do their research," I whispered smugly to Spock as we approached.

"M'kay…" the reporter said, jotting something down on a dweeby notepad before continuing. "Now it says here that your plane, _Enterprise_ –"

"_Excelsior_," the raven-haired man I took to be Sulu corrected.

"Right," the reporter agreed before continuing. I rolled my eyes.

"Spock," I whispered, "is there any way we can hustle this guy outta here?" I received another death glare. "You know, flash him your badge or something!" I elaborated, being met with more silence. "Just do something to make motormouth over here vamoose!"

"You know it's actually a refitted Lancaster from the war –" I vaguely heard Sulu mention.

Spock turned to look at me slowly. "'Vamoose,' Mister Kirk?"

"Aw, for Pete's sake!" I hissed.

"…but I guess you could say that I'm incredibly thrilled and I'm really living the dream." We turned to see the pilot give the reporter a genuine smile; of course, the dope in question had his head buried in his notepad.

"Now, Mister Sulu, I see here that you have quite the assortment of hobbies and interests, yes?" the newshound queried.

"If you don't do something to wrap this up, I will," I whispered threateningly in Spock's direction.

"By all means, Mister Kirk, lead the way," Spock replied almost flippantly. That was all the suggestion I needed.

"Excuse me," I said politely, stepping forward to tap the journalist on the shoulder.

"Oh, hmm, yes?" the reporter said, turning to look at me. "Can I help you, Mister…?"

"Kirk," I added, "the name's Kirk, and I was wondering if I could ask Mister Sulu here a quick question."

"I'd really rather you–"

"That's fine with me," the pilot in question interrupted. The reporter and I turned to look at him, causing Sulu to grow slightly uncomfortable judging from the way he abruptly stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Alright," I said, clearing my throat. "I don't suppose your list of hobbies would include… murder, would it, Mr. Sulu?" I asked, pausing for dramatic effect.

The pilot's brown eyes grew enormous and I could tell he was about to protest. Or laugh.

"Logically speaking, I'm not sure that was the best method in which to approach that topic," Spock noted from behind me.

I sighed and threw a look back at him. "Okay, let's start over."

"Whoa, whoa, back up!" the reporter demanded. "You gentlemen think you can just waltz over from the racetrack and start questioning this… this… unquestionable man about killing people?"

"Actually, I think we can," I retorted, finally giving the twit the smug grin I had been hiding. "Can't we, Detective Spock?"

At the mention of his name, Spock's ear pricked up – almost literally, but not really – and he withdrew his badge as I had been hoping he would. "Certainly," he said, turning to the now confused-looking pilot, "I'm afraid Mister Kirk and I have a few questions to ask you concerning a case of ours, Mister Sulu."

My eyes widened as I stood oblivious to the smarmy reporter and the worried suspect. _Ours?_ Had I hallucinated or had Spock finally recognized me as his partner in this ordeal? I took a quick glance around to make sure the sky wasn't falling or the earth hadn't stopped rotating.

"Sure thing," I heard Sulu say, slinging a bomber jacket over his shoulder and walking quite willingly with me over to Spock. "I'm going to have to take a rain check on the rest of those questions, Mister Q," he called back to the reporter we were in the process of ditching.

"Yeah, sorry bub," I added, quirking my lips into a sneer before turning back to the exit. The strange little writer turned beet red before scribbling something down on his notepad and huffing his way further inside the empty hangar.

Once the reporter was out of earshot, Sulu surprised me by releasing a relieved laugh accompanied by another genuine smile. "No offense to the media, but thanks for getting me out of that," he said. I opened my mouth to protest, but Sulu held up a hand to stop me. "It's OK," he stated, "I was expecting you guys anyway."

Spock nodded as if in approval. "Indeed. I was sure you would remember that I called ahead this morning."

"Ah, well in that case," I remarked, pointing towards Sulu, "nice acting."

This earned me a simple shrug from the man in question. "It was nothing. Should we, ah, get to business?" he asked, folding his arms across his broad chest.

"Mister Kirk and I talked to a Romulan who called himself Nero at one of the liquor establishments downtown last night," Spock stated, and I resisted the laugh that threatened to come out at the reference to a bar as a 'liquor establishment.' "He claims to be a mechanic for you here at the airport. Is this statement true?"

"A Romulan…" our friendly suspect repeated, apparently racking his brain for an answer. "Yes, I think there is a mechanic here by that name, along with several other Romulan workers. Why do you ask?" he wondered, his brow furrowing in concern.

Spock cleared his throat. "Mister Kirk and I believe the type of vehicle Mister Nero drives, a Rolls Royce Phantom, is linked to the case we are handling. However, Mister Nero mentioned to us that you had borrowed his automobile on a prior to our investigation on several occasions. Is this statement true as well?"

The uneasy feeling in my stomach grew as I watched Sulu's expression fall.

"Yes, it's true," he sighed, his brown eyes reflecting the understanding of what he was admitting. "My own car got rear-ended a while back and I've been too busy down here to have it looked at. Actually," he said, a look of slight frustration growing on his face, "I asked one of the mechanics down here to look at it since auto mechanics and plane mechanics require similar skills and techniques. I guess they've all been too busy, too, preparing for our first flight of the fall and all."

"I see," Spock concluded simply though his eyebrows continued to give him a puzzled expression. "Is there anything you have to add, Mister Kirk?"

"Not really," I replied, fumbling for the slip of paper in my coat pocket, "not pertaining to the case anyway. But about your car…"

Walking over to Sulu, I produced Scotty's business card from my jacket and handed it to the young pilot. "Hopefully this will help with your car problems."

Sulu grinned back at me. "Thanks."

"No problem," I shrugged. Glancing over his shoulder, I spied a familiar figure returning.

"Um," I began, attempting to get the attention of the two men with me, "don't look now but –"

"HELLO?" the annoying interviewer yelled at us from where he stood in an effort to avoid Spock and me. "Mister Sulu?"

The pilot pulled a strange face before turning around. "Can I help you with something?" he shouted back in a tone I found impossibly polite.

"Yes, ah," the reporter mumble-shouted, "it seems that I can't get past Security and I was wondering if you could provide me an escort of some sort."

I rolled my eyes as Sulu released a sigh and turned back to facing Spock, pinching the bridge of his nose in a stressed manner. "I really am sorry, but if you're done asking questions I should probably go help this guy."

Spock nodded approvingly. "That is acceptable; if we have any further questions we will not hesitate to contact you."

"Yeah, so don't leave town," I joked, although judging from the way Sulu's eyes widened he took my jab a little too seriously.

The Asian man had only taken a few steps back towards the reporter before he turned to survey us once more. "Will you two be OK getting out of here? I mean, since the genius over here is having Security issues…" He motioned not unkindly towards the 'genius' in question with a jerk of his thumb.

"I assure you, we will be fine," Spock answered, motioning towards his shiny gold badge.

"Yeah, don't worry," I added, "we'll show ourselves, um…"

I took a moment to look around the open airfield we were standing in.

"…out." I winced at the stupidity of my statement, but Sulu simply shook his head in amusement before waving goodbye to us and jogging across the lot.

"Hey Spock," I exclaimed, turning to my partner, "I just thought of something."

"And that would be…" the Vulcan asked, clearly not as enlightened as I was.

"If car mechanics and airplane mechanics are similar, it wouldn't a stretch to infer that spaceship mechanics."

"I'm not sure I see your point yet, Mister Kirk."

I glanced over at my shoulder at the barely visible shadows of Sulu and the reporters' retreating figures.

"If these Romulans are sort all-purpose mechanics, why can't they just fix their own spacecraft and leave?"

For a moment Spock looked at me blankly. Finally, he blinked and took a step backwards. "We should be returning to San Francisco now," he stated, "but remind me to investigate your inquiry further when we arrive back at the station."

"Oh," I was all I replied, a little disheartened by his dismissal. "Don't worry, I will."

Several steps later, my inquisitive nature restored, I piped up again. "Hey Spock. When that reporter was asking Sulu about his hobbies, did I hear him say something about plants?"

"Indeed," Spock replied almost agreeably. "According to my sources, Mister Sulu has a diverse range of interests and hobbies outside of aviation including botany and fencing as well as an interest in ancient weaponry."

"'Ancient weaponry,' eh?" I repeated. "Well according to your 'sources,' is he any good at this fighting stuff?"

"In spite of the recent decline in most cultures' formal training," Spock started, "he does indeed appear to be an excellent swordsman, thought I do not see how has time for it with his other current duties."

"Well damn," I replied as we moved to return to the cruiser, "if I ever get in serious trouble, I want him on my side!"

* * *

After twenty-some long minutes, we still hadn't left Bay Meadows, which was preparing to shut down for the night.

"Okay," I huffed, surveying the inside of the cop cruiser's engine one last time, "trying starting it now."

Spock cautiously turned the key in the ignition, and the Chevrolet finally roared to life.

I slammed the hood down. "This must be where cars come to die," I grumbled as I walked around to the passenger's side, "first Sulu and now this?" Spock, however, had stepped out of the driver's side and was now staring at the body of the vehicle with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Hmm," he murmured, his eyebrows lowering, "odd. I must remember to have someone look at it upon our return to the station."

A different kind of roar altogether interrupted my retort. Both of us looked at each other at the same time before turning our gaze out towards the open airfield.

Devoid of planes, the sky was painted an ominous gray, and a moment after a shock of white lightning we were jolted by another clap of thunder.

"Well this is strange," I noted with a scratch of my head, "it's usually pretty dry here in the summer, isn't it? Didn't think we were expecting rain." I cringed at the sound of my last statement, which came out sounding more like a country hick than an experienced San Francisco detective.

"Fascinating…" was all Spock said in response as we both continued to look up at the sky.

* * *

"We're doing it again," I said miserably as we entered the building, drenched to the core by the rain that had begun to pour. "We're returning to the station empty-handed."

"Indeed," Spock said, agreeing with me for once. "It would appear that our day was unproductive. We received no new information pertaining to our case and, dare I say it, were possibly even lead astray by our lead from last night."

"Way to rub it in… Wait," I interjected, holding out an arm to halt him. "You're actually agreeing with me? You think it's possible that Nero fed us false information and led us to Sulu in an attempt to throw us off?" _Maybe the world _has_ finally come to an end…_

Spock's eyes met mine, but as he opened his mouth to speak we were met with the sound of relatively female shoes clicking towards us rapidly. We both turned to see Uhura running towards us, oblivious to the stares of her co-workers.

She stopped abruptly a few feet away from us.

"We have a situation," Uhura told us breathlessly.

"What's wrong? What's going on?" I asked, cold panic blooming in the pit of my stomach.

"There's been a seventh murder," she stated, shining eyes betraying her cool demeanor. "And this time, we have a witness."

**A/N**: So let's see, who hasn't been introduced yet… Yes, Subtle Kirk during the interview = FAIL. Also, I made a goof in the third chapter – VW Beetles weren't introduced in the United States until 1949, and even then they weren't very popular. I sure think they're nice, but oh well. And don't worry; I plan on getting back to how Spock **is** half-human in a later chapter.


	6. Among the Living

**A/N**: I will finish this story, I WILL! I mean, oh look, a shiny new chapter!

**Chapter Six**

**Among the Living**

"Please state your name for the record."

The soaking wet witness blinked at his surroundings before responding. "Pavel Andreievich Chekov."

The kid looked like he was maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet, which he was, brown curls plastered to his forehead haphazardly. His slight appearance was at odds with the heavy Russian accent produced when he spoke, and his bright eyes flitted about the stark interrogation room, more from shock than fear. For a guy who had been mere inches from murder an hour ago, he was holding up pretty well.

Spock, who resolutely ignored the metal chair opposite the kid, stood leaning forward with both hands flat on the bare table. "And what is your location of origin, Mister Chekov?"

Pavel twitched and turned his blue eyes helplessly to the corner I was leaning in.

"Where are you from, kid?" I translated, amused at my new position as mediator.

"I just come from Russia," Chekov stated, glancing back at Spock.

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "You are new to the area?"

"Da," Chekov affirmed, twitching again.

I strode across the room and stuck my head out the door, surprising the rookie waiting outside. "Can we get the kid a coat or something?" I asked using my best Pike impression. The cop nodded once and scurried away; I smiled to myself before reentering the room, mentally noting no matter how cunning Spock was he would never be able to out-impersonate me.

I returned to my station in the corner, both Spock's and Chekov's eyes trailing me. I shot Spock a look and he took the hint, pulling out a notepad and pen before returning to the interrogation.

"So I have gathered that since you are not native to the United States," Spock began, finally sitting down, "our police station, along with our hospitals and other life facilities, have no information pertaining to your history on file." I nodded in agreement even though I wondered what exactly he meant by "other life facilities."

Chekov seemed to think about this for a minute. "Da," he confirmed, "is true."

Spock observed the boy coolly. "That was not a question."

The rangy Russian shrank in his seat. I used to ensuing awkward silence to clear my throat since I was becoming more invisible to the pair by the minute.

"As a result of this _inconvenience_," Spock stated, "I am obligated to ask you a series of questions relating to your personal history. I expect you to respond accordingly."

Chekov shot me a fleeting look, which I returned with an offhand shrug. I had nothing better to do, so I might as well stick around and see what kind of information this kid could provide. Besides, who knew what kind of culture clash these two could get into without the aid of an experienced American such as myself?

Spock snapped open his pad and set the pen to paper. "Location and date of birth."

"I vas born in Moscow," Chekov replied, his brow furrowing in concentration, "on fifteenth of June, 1930."

Spock wrote this information down before processing it. He looked over his shoulder at me with an expression I could only assume was confusion. I raised an eyebrow in response.

"So what you're saying, Chekov," I began, never breaking eye contact with Spock, "is that you are currently seventeen years old." I knew our victims were around that age but wasn't buying that this kid was a day over fifteen.

Chekov scoffed. "I am not _only_ sewenteen," he argued, tripping over his Vs, "I am adult. I haf degree from Lomonosov Uniwersity to prove it."

Spock and I were both at loss for words.

"You… you graduated from college," I restated. "Already."

"Da, is fact," Chekov replied with conviction, rubbing his nose and looking far from any collegiate I had ever seen. "I make call, zey wire you transcript."

"He's right, Spock," I said, folding my arms across my chest and looking at my partner. "We don't have to talk about his now. We can get this elementary bullshit from his hometown." Spock raised an eyebrow. "Can't we?"

"While it is within the realm of possibilities, I doubt it would be advisable due to the current hostility between our countries."

"Oh." I thought for a moment, Spock and Chekov frowning up at me. "Oh! You're talking us and Stalin."

Once again, I could have sworn Spock rolled his eyes, I gesture I was all too accustomed to seeing from Bones. The kid shook his head in disbelief, muttering something about a "_militsiya idiot_."

"Back to the case at hand," Spock began, "can you tell us the events exactly as they occurred between you and the victim in the moments before the attack?"

Chekov sniffed and looked away, one hand tangled in his matted hair. For the first time I took a good look at his blood-spattered shirt, the crimson concentrating near his stomach and the ends of his rolled-up sleeves dulling the gold plaid pattern.

"I vas out for a run," he began, "around ten, to become more familiar with ze area, vhen I reached ze downtown. I valk until I run into Sam."

"Had you ever met Mister Strauss prior to yesterday evening?" Spock asked, referring to our seventh victim.

Chekov started to shake his head then paused. "Vell, I had seen him around. I figure ve about same age, but newer talk vith him about it."

"Were you the one to approach him or did he attempt to converse with you first?"

"He approached me," Chekov confirmed, his brow furrowed in thought. "He sez he see me around town, ask me vhere I vas from, vanted to know what school was like…" His eyes grew distant. "He vanted to go to uniwersity dis Fall. He vas almost my first friend here."

"Chekov," I said, leaning forward on the table next to Spock, "I know this is hard for you, pal, but can you tell us what happened when you guys were done talking?"

Chekov inhaled deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly in the shadows. "Ve talk until midnight, maybe. Is late." He frowned in thought again. "Or early. Anyvay, ve valk to drugstore, Strauss and Sons, sez his family liwes abowe there. He vanted me to come up and meet his family. I protest since is late. Ve standing by fire escape because he didn't vant to use main entrance, vanted to go in through window in liwing room."

I nodded, willing him to go on. I was starting to get the hang of his accent, which Spock seemed to grasp equally well if his constant note-taking was any indication.

"So ve standing in alley. I turn to leawe and get to near front of store vhen I hear scream. I turn around and see dis _man_ vith a knife! I… I thought he vas just drawing it, so I run back to Sam. Ze man, he runs toward me, but I duck in time and get past him. Dis other man joins ze first by entrance of alley, but zey turn back and start come for me! I vas kneeling by Sam, vhen all of a sudden I see lights."

"A car pulled up," I inferred. Spock glared at me before turning back to Chekov, who resumed his story.

"Dis big car pulls up," he nodded, "and ze two men go back. Zey jump in wery fast, but it sits there vith ze door open for a second. Zen dis lady comes running down ze block and jumps in too before zey zoom avay."

"These three the only people you saw?"

"Da."

"What did they look like?" I asked before Spock.

"Zey were huge," the kid remembered, his eyes bugging out slightly, "all dressed in black, ewen zey faces. Wery tall, wery muscled. Maybe zey not human, I don't know, vas still dark out. And ze voman I remember quite clearly because she vas green."

"A woman in green?" I asked reflexively.

"No, no, a _green voman_," Chekov insisted. "Dark hair, dark eyes."

My lip twitched into a grin. "You hear that, Spock? Either we've got the coincidence of the century or a case."

Spock frowned and continued writing in his notebook.

"Detectives." The rookie I had sent running earlier poked his head back in. "Captain's back from the hospital with autopsy reports. He wants to talk to you both."

"Thank you, Officer Richards," Spock said, rising to meet his fellow cop. "I believe my interrogation has been quite thorough but if you would please keep an eye on Mister Chekov until we have the liberty of returning it would be most appreciated." Richards nodded, avoiding making eye contact with the Vulcan, who exited without so much as a backwards glance.

I hung back. "Hey Richards," I began, "what's going on with you and Spock?"

"Hmm?"

"You wouldn't look him in the eyes."

The new cop laughed nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I shot Chekov a questioning look, which he returned with a half-hearted shrug-turned shiver.

"Get the kid a coat," I commanded before leaving.

I caught up to Spock easily. "What are we telling Pike exactly?"

"Merely that our suspect will require further interrogation at a later time, perhaps when he is at a lesser emotional state which might cause him to provide us with false information," the Vulcan stated.

"'Suspect?' Spock, there is no way that kid is the culprit. I bet you when we get back to the bullpen, Uhura will already be able to prove it."

"I never suggested otherwise," Spock noted.

"Yeah, well I bet you were thinking it," I grumbled.

"Hmm."

I turned to face Spock. "Wait, you _were_ thinking it?"

Spock met my gaze. "I'm afraid I do not fully comprehend Mister Chekov's motives for coming to our country at a time when tensions between the United States and his homeland are increasing."

"Maybe he's here to steal the formula for our nukes," I teased, relaxing slightly at the revelation of Spock's reasoning.

"Don't even joke about that," said Pike as we entered the bullpen. "What have you got for me?"

Spock opened his mouth but his reply was drowned out in my ears by the ringing smack of a clipboard, specifically the one used to hit me upside the head at that instant.

"Ow!" I grabbed my throbbing head and turned to face an irritated Uhura. I gestured to my recent stitches; her expression softened slightly but she didn't apologize. Pike and Spock had moved away and were continuing their discussion as if nothing had happened.

"Miss me that much?" I teased, squinting in the early morning light.

"What are you doing back here?" Uhura demanded. "You're supposed to deliberate your findings in the back room."

"Pike wanted us out here to fill him in. Hopefully Spock's got that covered," I added, glancing back at the pair of expert cops.

"And what new and exciting information have you gathered from our suspect?" Uhura wondered flatly.

"Since when are you on our case?" I fired back, picking up on her use of "our."

"Pike transferred me since I speak Russian," she explained, studying the first page on the clipboard in an effort to avoid me.

"You speak Russian… and Romulan, if you were covering that Nero case… come to think of it, I've heard you chatting up just about every species imaginable at the bar before I knew who you were. How many languages _do_ you speak?"

Uhura looked up at me. "Back to the kid," she commanded.

"What?"

"The kid, Kirk. Chekov. Did he mention a green woman?"

"Yeah," I said, "How did you…"

Someone behind Uhura giggled, causing me to draw my gaze up and over her shoulder.

"Well hello, pretty lady," I drawled in a manner that would have made Bones proud as I sauntered over to the green-skinned woman perched on the Cadet's desk. "What brings you to the neighborhood? Don't tell me you're not really a waitress either."

Gaila smirked back at me, tossing her brilliant red hair over her shoulder and leafing forward a page in the newspaper she was pretending to read. "So this is what happens when I leave town for a week? You up and join the police department? Didn't know you were taking your job so seriously these days."

"Gaila was _just leaving_," Uhura said with a pointed look at each of us.

Gaila blinked up at me. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Who said you were?" I replied, leaning on the desk next to her to flash Uhura a smile.

The officer huffed and put a hand on her hip but stayed where she was. "Fine, but there's no way I'm leaving the two of you alone."

"Oh, she really does have the hots for me," I mock-whispered to Gaila, who laughed much to Uhura's growing displeasure. "Seriously though, what are you doing here? Don't tell me you've been roped into my— _our_ case, too."

"Believe it," Gaila replied, tapping me with her rolled-up periodical. "I got your green friend and turned her in."

My eyebrows shot up to meet my hairline. "You're lying."

Gaila held up her hand in mock salute. "Orion's honor. Devna was always trouble back home. I should have known she would fall in with bad people here."

"You make it sound like it's your fault," I noted, nudging Gaila, who shrugged in response.

"I had noticed she was up to something, even if we weren't close. I forgot how the little things add up."

"And now it's my turn to add those things up," I stated. "Uhura, we're going to have to do a background check –"

"Already done," Uhura said, passing me the clipboard she had been dragging around while giving Gaila's shoulder a squeeze.

"Well peachy," I exclaimed, rifling through the information. I stopped on the fifth-to-last page, on which KIRK, JAMES TIBERIUS was emblazoned.

"What is this?" I asked, yanking out the subsequent pages. Uhura glanced over, her lovely brown eyes widening.

"That's not –"

"Who asked for a background check on me?"

Uhura paused for a moment, glancing helplessly at Gaila and back. "Spock did."

"Oh." I shouldn't have been shocked. I shouldn't have been concerned. We were working together; it was only natural for him to worry about where I came from and the history my investigation business. But I was so used to being upfront with people directly that this felt like treason, like he was going behind my back because I wasn't worth trusting or dealing with directly.

A slender green finger poked my shoulder. "You all right?" I looked up at the two women watching me cautiously.

"Yeah," I lied, "I'm just a little uncomfortable, I guess." I handed the papers back to Uhura and stood up.

"Kirk, Uhura," Pike stated, approaching us with Spock trailing close behind, "stay put. We need to discuss some details. Miss Gaila," he began, turning with a slight smile, "the information you gave helped us locate the suspect, who's being held for questioning. I'd like to thank you personally for your help."

"It was the least I could do, Sir," Gaila countered with a shrug before a familiar spark entered her eyes. "Now what's this I hear about you guys having a new hire?"

Pike rolled his eyes. "Officer Richards is in back. Tell him to bring the kid out while you're at it." Gaila grinned and threw a salute before sauntering away. The rest of us turned back to Pike.

"Samuel Strauss died at 2:10 this morning from internal bleeding. His liver was punctured, as well as his right lung. The kid was eighteen years old, definitely fits with our other victims." He paused. "This is escalating. I'm starting to think maybe I should start pulling people off of other cases to help."

"Other?" Spock asked with a frown.

"Officer Uhura now is aiding you," Pike clarified, "especially concerning translations, Russian or otherwise." Uhura shot Spock a brief look of what I thought was admiration, which he dutifully ignored.

"And speaking of Russian, what are we going to do with the whiz kid, what's his name…"

"Chekov," Uhura supplied.

"Right," Pike nodded. "Seeing as he lives alone in the city, it's our duty to keep an eye on him. Whoever these murderous hoodlums are it's safe to say they've seen him, and it wouldn't be a stretch to assume they'd come back to finish the job."

"What if we let them?" I wondered out loud. Pike and Uhura whipped around to look at me incredulously; Spock remained still but I caught his gaze. "What if we made it _look_ like we were leaving the kid alone when really we would only be waiting for the killers to come back so we could catch them in the act?"

"You want to use the kid as bait?" Pike asked warily. "I don't like this idea, James."

"Neither do I, Captain," Spock stated. "Leaving our suspect alone seems unwise, and while I am unquestionably dedicated to the case at hand I do not think capturing his assailants is worth risking this human's life."

Uhura opened her mouth to disagree as well.

"Vhat is disagreement concerning me?"

The four of us turned to face Pavel Chekov, who had entered the bullpen silently. He was positively swimming in the clean shirt and jacket Richards had grabbed for him and looking a mite upset about being discussed without his knowledge.

"Did you get a chance to use the telephone?" Pike asked him, asserting his authority yet displaying genuine concern for our witness. "Have you talked to your parents?" I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation; I doubted it was every day Soviet geniuses got asked by California police chiefs suspecting them of involvement in a murder case if they had talked to Mother and Father Dearest.

Chekov nodded, a bit of the worry fading from his face. "Yes sir, Keptin. Zey worried but zey agree to authorize transfer of seweral of my personal records also."

"Good to hear," Pike noted, looking around the circle, his gaze purposefully avoiding me. "Now who wants to be in charge of Mister Chekov?"

I cleared my throat. "Gentlemen, _lady_, if you'll allow me…" I began, looping an arm around the witness.

"James," Pike interrupted, leveling his stern gaze at me, "what did we just agree on?"

"I know, I know. I have a different plan, a temporary plan. Spock you're coming with us. Don't worry kid," I told Chekov, leading him towards the back exit, "I know just what to do with you."

**A/N**: Oh Chekov, you're too adorable for words, which works out nicely since your accent mangles everything. Okay folks, from here on out things start to tie together, so fasten your seatbelts. There is a method to my madness. Also, I take back my bitching about the broken flash drive, which was recently trumped by a lovely computer virus for Worst Technological Experience Ever. Oh, and Happy 2010! Hopefully I'll have the story done by '11. :D


	7. To Have and Have Not

**A/N: **So… it's been a year since I started this puppy (and half of one since my last update). I've said it before, and I'll say it again – I am not giving up on this piece, especially not with only three chapters left. We have all the players; now all we need is a little drama…

**Chapter Seven**

**To Have and Have Not**

"Jim, this is a morgue, not a hotel," Bones said without looking up from the incision he was making. "You can't bring in anyone off the street whenever you feel like it."

"But this," I began, pushing a startled Chekov in front of me, "is not just anyone. Tell him who you are, kid."

"Uh," he began, taking a quick glance over his shoulder at Spock and me. "I am Pavel Andreievich Chekov," he stated, throwing in a "sir" at the end for good measure.

Bones stared at the three of us for a moment before resuming his autopsy. "No."

"But Bones, I haven't even asked you –"

"Whatever it is, _no_."

I motioned for Spock and Chekov to stay put before leaning across the body to grab Bones' nearest arm. With my free hand I pried the scalpel away, earning me a death glare from the doctor.

I jumped back slightly; looking into my friend's eyes, I could now see a new array of wrinkles and shadows.

"How long have you been here?" The question came without thinking, but I knew it was the right one to ask.

Bones rubbed his free arm across his eyes. "The clock broke around four this morning. Don't you have bigger things to worry about right now, Mister Private Detective?"

"Well that explains last night." At the doctor's puzzled expression, I explained, leading him away from his 'patient.' "I tried calling you around eight about _this_ so it wouldn't come as such a shock… McCoy, what were you doing here so late?"

The doctor eyed me, probably wary of my use of his true surname. He huffed and turned away, studying the wall I wasn't blocking. "I was finishing up that kid you brought in yesterday. There were some things I wanted to double-check, and…" Bones turned to meet my gaze before turning to stare at Chekov. He turned to me once more. "Is this the friend?"

I nodded. "He's been moping around my apartment since noon yesterday, spent the night on my couch. Good thing you didn't see him then – he looked like a kicked dog when I made a grocery run."

Bones frowned. "You weren't at the station yesterday?"

"Well, I was… I was around, you know?" Truthfully, I hadn't visited Bones at work because I had a hunch he'd be wrapped up in this case already. Believe it or not, I am capable of not only sensing when people need space but also giving it to them. I just prefer not to ninety-eight percent of the time.

Hooking an arm over my friend's tense shoulders, I changed the subject. "Look, Pike is fine with Chekov being out on a short leash. Spock and I have work to get caught up on, and taking the kid back with us will only provoke more trauma. Of course, the company isn't as nice at the big house either."

McCoy frowned. "So you're foisting him off on the overworked, underpaid doctor with anger issues and hundreds of surgical instruments?"

I nodded. "Well, you and Nurse Chapel."

"Nurse Chapel isn't in until this afternoon. What am _I_ supposed to do with him, send him over to the university?"

"No," I corrected, "he needs to stay in the basement. The less people who know he's here, the better. Besides, he's all done with classes. You could get him _a job_ at the university."

Bones shot another confused in Chekov's direction. "There's no way he's graduated from college."

"Ask him yourself," I said, retreating back towards the Russian-Vulcan duo.

Bones wrinkled his brow, sizing up the kid once more. "How old are you?"

"Sewenteen, sir," Chekov chirped.

"Oh great, Jim, he's seventeen," Bones noted sarcastically. "Seriously, if you think you're going to pull a fast one on me, it's not going to fly, even if you did manage to get the green-blood in it."

"I can assure you," Spock sniffed derisively, "I am playing no part in a ruse of any type."

"See, this isn't one of my 'useless shenanigans,' Bones. This is one-hundred percent police sanctioned."

"I wouldn't exactly say _that_," Spock said under his breath. Chekov shot me a panicked look.

"Bones," I begged, "_please_. Do me this _one_ favor –"

"Do you have any idea how wrong that statement is?" my friend snapped, his drawl more pronounced due to stress. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a babysitter!"

" 'Babysitter?' " Chekov wrinkled his nose. "I am not some sort of child in need of protection."

"A child, no, I know, but you are definitely in need of protection," I warned.

"Perhaps we would be wise to begin inquiring elsewhere," Spock whispered, pulling me aside. "Doctor McCoy, though in a relatively 'safe' and authoritative position, clearly does not possess the disposition to deal with –"

"Hey kid." Spock stopped his lecture at the sound of McCoy's gruff voice. The two of us turned to find Bones surveying Chekov across the open cadaver. Both doctor and police charge stood defensively with arms crossed over chests. "So you're seventeen, huh? What do you know about dead people?"

Chekov blanched but stood his ground, covering with a grim laugh. "I seen one firsthand quite recently, no?"

"See, they're bonding already, everything's hunky-dory," I said to an impassive Spock. "I'll ring you later, Bones. Try not to throw out your back chasing Einstein Junior." With that, I dragged Spock from the room by the sleeve of his dingy jacket, McCoy and Chekov watching with equally wide eyes.

* * *

Upon entering the station, I bounded up to Uhura's desk, leaving Spock to drop off some papers at his station.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, _Nyota_?" I asked with an extra-large grin.

Uhura, who was nursing her first cup of coffee, scowled back at me. "Who told you that was my first name?"

"Is it now? I'm sure I had no idea until _you_ suggested it now."

"_Kirk_."

"I have my sources."

"Mm-hmm. Tell your sources to talk a long walk off a short pier."

I clutched a hand to my chest. "Ouch. All this over a name, and a beautiful one, I might add? There's no need for the crabapples act, darling. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you're… doing my paperwork."

I tilted my head for a better look as Uhura brushed a stack together, tapping the pages straight on the now-cleared desk surface.

"You're replacing me."

Uhura proffered the reports and looked up at me almost pityingly. "Of course not."

"You mean 'not officially,'" I countered.

The silence grew more unbearable by the second. I was about to crack when Uhura broke eye contact with me, sinking into her chair.

"No one's seen Nero since he penciled out from work last night," she said, voice hollow, eyes distant. I followed her gaze across the room to Spock, who had one foot in the door to Pike's office. I looked away. "Sulu says he saw him last around 6:13 p.m. Gaila didn't see him at the bar, but she couldn't get a hold of us until closing time."

"Spock and I are going there as soon as they open, at noon," I said, my tone leaving no room for disagreement. Uhura nodded.

I glanced back at Pike's closed door. "Is he pulling more people yet?"

"Not yet. He has a few of the cadets from my Nero case double-checking medical and mechanical details, but I think he trusts you two too much to crowd you out."

"Yeah," I agreed to nothing in particular before we drifted back into silence. "Can I ask you a question?"

Uhura straightened up, folding her hands on the desk. "Shoot."

"What was the case you were working on that Nero was a suspect?"

I could almost see the gears turning, setting the story into place to be told in confidence, probably for the first time. "You know the string of local murdered businessmen?"

I met her eyes, confused. "That's it? He was bumping off suits?"

Sadly, Uhura shook her head. "That's the story we released to the public. Kirk, all the 'men' that were killed were Vulcans. Elder Vulcans. I think even you know how important the elders are in _their_ society."

A chill ran up my spine. "Does… does _he_…"

We both looked back the Pike's office. The door was still closed, still unearthly quiet on the other side of that wall.

"No," Uhura said, "but I have a feeling he will once Pike is done with him."

"Why was Nero one of your suspects?" I asked, clearing my constricted throat. "I mean, he didn't work with or for any of the 'guys,' did he?"

Uhura picked up a pen, rolling it between her fingers. "One of the other cadets, a different sort of Romulan, heard through the grapevine that Nero swore revenge on one certain Vulcan, says he blames him for stranding his crew here on Earth. Somehow it spiraled into wiping out their entire race."

"Any idea who the lucky fellow is?"

Uhura frowned. "I got the job at the bar to find my concrete evidence."

"Since you speak the language."

She smirked. "All three dialects. It's odd though."

"What, the Romulan language?"

"No, that Nero is making his mission so obvious. When you think about it, murdering Vulcans in San Francisco is, well, illogical since most of them choose to live in desert climates."

"So he's sending a message," I concluded. "The Vulcan he's looking for is here."

Uhura's expression tightened; I shot her a panicked look, rethinking my last statement. "The Vulcan he's looking for…"

The beautiful cadet glanced around the bullpen, making sure everybody else was occupied before giving my nearest hand a reassuring squeeze. "You two need all the help you can get."

I couldn't stay there any longer. "Excuse me," I said with a lack of inflection that would have made my partner proud, "I have a telephone call to make."

I stood up, ignoring Uhura's protests, and walked through the rain two blocks to the nearest telephone booth. Closing the door, I slumped forward, leaning my forehead on the far wall. I needed to think, to pin down one thought in my head to keep from getting overwhelmed. I was in the case deep, but something told me I needed to dig even deeper.

Raking a hand through my hair, I turned a full circle inside the box before picking up the receiver and depositing ten cents.

"Hello, Operator, I'd like to make a call –"

"Jim? Jim Kirk?" The girl on the other end was on Cloud Nine.

"Um…"

"It's Lucille. Lucy? From three weeks ago, we met at the bar on 12th street." Details were filtering through, something about Iowa and a cute brunette… and meeting Uhura.

"Charlie's, right. Wow, that's," I coughed, somewhat unsettled, "that is some ear you've got there. Listen, this call is kind of important –"

"Is this about one of your cases?"

Apparently I was a chatty drunk. "You know, it is, and it's kind of urgent. Could you get me the Bay Meadow Airport?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Lucy replied, "I'm connecting you now. Call me sometime."

"Will do," I lied. I heard whirring, white noise, before being greeted by a now-familiar voice.

"Bay Meadows Racetrack and Airport, Hikaru Sulu speaking."

"Sulu. It's Kirk."

"Oh." The glee I felt at finding my subject on the first call was immediately dampened by the pilot's glum tone. "I talked to some rookie yesterday, but if there's anything –"

"Would you mind answering a few more questions?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

"Sure," Sulu replied dejectedly, "what more could it hurt?"

I paused for thought. "What did we hurt?"

"I'm grounded, every single flight," Sulu explained. "I can't fly privately due to the weather, and I can't fly publicly due to this investigation, being a person of interest and all. Pike's trying to the keep the situation hidden from the press, but I think we both know how well that's going to work out, considering the target that seems to be painted on my back."

Life as the fall guy was never fun; I would know. "Actually, I was wondering about Nero. What did our guy ask regarding his Romulan crew?"

"Not much," Sulu replied, his tone a smidge less dull, "just when I last saw him."

"Last night?"

"Right. I think he said something about leaving town for the weekend, but if he's anywhere in San Fran it's that ridiculous bar."

"Ignoring that comment," I said, garnering a muffled laugh from the other man. "Do you know where any of those guys lived?"

"Not without checking the files," Sulu replied. "I remember something about an apartment on a street off of downtown somewhere. What's that street with the drugstore?"

Startled, I blanked on the street, remembering only "Strauss and Sons."

"Yeah, that sounds like the right store, but I can't remember…"

"That's fine, Sulu, I'll call you back if I have any questions later."

"You're sure you have enough information for now?"

"Positive," I replied, pieces of the problem connecting in my mind, leaving new suspicions and no room for doubt. "Thank you for your cooperation… again."

"No problem."

I ran back to the police station, jacket pulled over my head to keep dry from the steady drizzle. Naturally, I got splashed by three taxis. That was just the kind of day this was turning out to be.

Spock was waiting for me in the lobby, along with receptionist Rand, who was occupied with a magazine.

"You know you could have just used my phone, farm boy," the blonde intoned without looking up.

"Contrary to Cadet Uhura's concern, I assumed you would be returning," Spock noted, ignoring Rand's jab, "though I must inquire as to what urgent business caused your leave. Some _private_ investigating, perhaps?"

"You're one to speak, Inspector," I replied as he walked over. "Get your car keys, we're going back to Charlie's."

"I'm afraid I do not know this Charles of whom you speak."

"The bar, Spock. We're going back to the bar."

My partner quirked an eyebrow. "At this hour of the day?"

"It opens at noon."

"I understand; you wish to inquire about Mister Nero when you are positive no other patrons will be present."

"You'd be surprised how many people you'd find at any bar this early." I checked my wristwatch. "First we need to swing by my apartment to pick up my old files, and then we go to the bar. After that, hopefully, we find Nero's apartment, if not Nero himself, and then," I finished, looking Spock in the eyes, "we need to talk."

* * *

"Let me see if I understand what's going on here," Captain Pike began, standing over Spock, Uhura, and me. "Your lead suspect cut town. Your secondary suspect, who is the lead suspect's boss, is now missing. All you've got to show for this case is the moll. What could you possibly be working on?"

"Kirk was having a hunch," Uhura replied mockingly. Even though she had agreed to help go through the extra files I had produced she wasn't going to any great lengths to pretend she was enjoying our task.

My stomach growled in response. "I would rather be having lunch." Truth be told, I was frustrated as well. Everything that had seemed to be coming together while I was talking to Sulu was falling apart.

The bartender working when we got to Charlie's was positive Nero was working today. After yielding no further leads, Spock and I had attempted to drive to the airfield to search for him ourselves. That was when the rain picked up, with gale force winds and enough thunder to spook Bones in his basement. I called to check in on him and Chekov when we returned to the station before trying the airport once more. This time there was no answer. There was no answer at his apartment either, and since Spock was still working on the search warrant for Nero's flat, I wasted another dime and called his building's telephone. Nothing. Everything about this case was dead.

"Your statement is illogical since it is currently 1600 hours," Spock corrected. "Also what is this 'moll' of which you speak?"

"A gangster's girl," I replied absently. I spied a cadet entering the bullpen drenched from head to foot. The storm was brewing, generating the bleakest weather that made even the early Californian evening seem like midnight in the streets.

Pike tilted his head to study us. "And your current plan of action is…"

"We don't know yet," I said with a pointed look at Spock, who blinked at me.

"Mister Kirk is in favor of, and I quote, 'tracking down Mister Nero to confront him.' I find this method –"

"Yes, it's 'illogical,'" I sniped.

"Actually," Spock continued coolly, "I was going to say 'unwise' and perhaps 'unsafe.'"

"Whereas _I_ am in favor of not having every single one of my ideas for this case vetoed," I retorted.

"James," Pike reasoned, leaning forward on an unused chair to look me in the eyes "Detective Spock's ideas –"

"I know, I know, you're obviously going to side with Spock since you hired him, and he's on the payroll and whatnot…"

"It's not about 'whatnot,'" Pike interjected. "It's about his ideas not resulting in bar fights and damage of public property."

From behind her stack of papers, I swore I could see Uhura smirking. "So you heard about that?"

"I'm the Captain of the local police force. I know all about you kids and your jazz clubs."

Spock and I shared a confused look. Pike chuckled, straightening up. "I'll leave you to your work."

No sooner had the door to his office closed than the telephone on Spock's desk began ringing. He answered it without looking up from the notes he was scribbling.

"_Shacha_." Spock put his pen down and looked up at Uhura. "Yes, Operator, I'll take the call."

"Why do they always call _your_ phone?" I grumbled.

"Good evening, Miss Chapel."

"Ah, that explains it." Uhura rolled her eyes before turning back her paperwork.

I was about to excuse myself, but at the sound of muffled crying, I bolted-upright.

"I'm sorry, Miss Chapel," Spock stated, "but I cannot understand what you are saying." He looked up at me, his brown eyes questioning.

"Bones," I mouthed, no sound accompanying my plea.

"Miss Chapel, has something happened to Doctor Bo—McCoy?" My heart was beating too loud to realize Spock had almost called McCoy the nickname I used.

A wail crackled through the wires and out of the mouthpiece. My heart jumped up into my throat, and I willed my eyes not to water.

"Nurse Chapel," Spock said, "Nurse Chapel, I'm going to have to request that you calm down."

The hysterics decreased. The entire room had frozen, my fellow officers gone silent as they gathered around Spock and me.

Spock held the speaker away from his face and looked at it before turning his blank gaze up toward me.

"Nurse Chapel has informed me that Doctor McCoy was being held at the hospital against his will and that his attackers have only recently fled the scene."

Before the sentence was finished, I had grabbed my coat off the desk and ran outside.

* * *

The autopsy room was a mess. The same cadaver from this morning lay open on the table, mutilated by inexperienced hands.

"Bones!" I shouted. The lights were on but there was no one was in sight.

A streak of red ran down the wall opposite from where I stood.

Cautiously, I made my way around the table, anticipating an attack. None came.

Instead, I found myself looking down at the bruised and battered body of my best friend.

McCoy's dark hair was disheveled in some places and stuck to his head with blood in others. A gash ran across one cheek, and multiple scalpel slashes covered his torso.

Slowly, I knelt beside his limp form and reverently picked up his nearest wrist.

To my surprise, a steady thump met my fingers. At the same time I realized I had successfully found a pulse, my friend let out a clotted cough.

"McCoy!" I exclaimed, crawling through the growing pool of blood so I could support his head, resting his upper back on my knees. His head lolled off the side, forcing me to correct its position.

"Bones," I pleaded, "buddy, come on, you're going to pull through. Please, you have to be all right!"

"Jim?" The disoriented doctor in my arms stirred as he groped for something groggily.

"Bones!" I exclaimed. "God, Bones, you scared me."

"Kid," he muttered.

"Yeah, what?"

"No," he groaned, "not you, the kid. They took your kid."

"Chekov? …Who took him?" I demanded, shaking his shoulders. "Who took him, McCoy?"

My questions went unanswered. As the sound of cops arriving and of Nurse Chapel weeping rose, my friend slumped forward onto my lap and went still.

**A/N**: In the Bones/Kirk conversation about what to do with Chekov, I used "the university" singular because I referred to Bones working at the UCSF medical center, so he would have only considered that college even though there are several universities in the area. Oh, and as to that last part right there? Please don't kill me.


	8. Detour

**Chapter Eight**

**Detour**

"Your friend is stable."

The words weren't as comforting as I had hoped; I was still shaking something fierce. Fortunately the only person around to witness my breakdown was Spock, who was acting more considerate than I had ever seen him before. Even he could tell I would be having nightmares about Bones and that autopsy room well into the next century.

I slouched forward in my chair, resting my head in my hands. "This is my fault."

"We have already gone over the evidence," Spock responded, taking a seat on the hard plastic chair next to mine. "Emotionally, it is unhealthy for you to persist in this belief that you are in some way personally responsible for the untimely attack on Doctor McCoy and Mister Chekov."

"That's just it," I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "This attack was personal. If I hadn't stuck Chekov with Bones, if I had _actually_ taken responsibility for once and been there for the kid and been considerate of my closest friend instead of lollygagging at the station …"

"Then this case and perhaps the entire police workforce would have suffered," my partner finished. "You were merely performing the duties requested of you by Captain Pike."

"Don't kid me, Spock. The squad would have been just fine without me. Probably better off, even." I looked at my shoes, scuffing them on the floor a few times. "You know how suspicious everyone down there can be. I'll bet by now some of them think this whole missing hostage situation is my fault."

"Explain."

"Did I not suggest we use the kid as bait? Did I know when and where he would be alone with Bones? This case didn't really go to hell until I joined."

Spock shifted in his seat. "I concur that it would make a plausible story… but anyone who has been in recent proximity with you must be aware of your character, even in passing."

"Let's hope." I turned to meet Spock's gaze. "They have to know… they have to understand I couldn't do that to him, Spock. Not Bones, not the kid…" I covered my eyes again, Spock watching me in silence. "It's just… God, this looks so bad. I mean, I pulled all the strings. It's my fault _your_ case is unraveling."

"It is your case as well. Do not be upset with yourself for my sake."

"I'm not," I lied, standing up, "I just…"

Spock watched me pace the waiting area with dark eyes. "Perhaps you are frightened," he concluded. "It is not uncommon for those close to a victim to feel their safety is threatened even if the act of violence perpetrated was random and the victim's contacts are in no way significant to the crime. The attack is also alarming since it has jeopardized your position within the investigation, upsetting your natural ease whilst at work." He took my silence as an agreement. "This is an acceptable reaction."

"Is it now?" I practically laughed. I wanted to scream, throw something at him. Instead I continued pacing, running my hands roughly through my hair.

"Indeed. Fear is necessary for improvement. You must use the unfortunate to your benefit."

I stopped pacing, standing directly in front of the impassive inspector. "I'm not scared. Stop telling me what I feel."

"And yet your actions prove otherwise. Or rather, your inactions."

"My inactions?" I huffed, crossing my arms.

"You are paralyzed, letting your fear run control your countenance. Instead of further investigating the true nature of what happened, you are pacing, waiting for something to happen for you rather than making said abstract ideal occur."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry. I'm not born programmed to be so… _Vulcan_," I snapped. "I can't just turn off what I feel because it affects every single thing I think and do. So stop talking," I seethed, noticing Spock's jaw tense, as if he wanted to protest. "Stop talking to me I'm a fucking six-year-old, like I'm some dumb hick. I'm not scared. I'm… _shit_!"

I kicked over a waiting room chair, barely causing Spock to flinch. Whipping around, I made the mistake of lunging toward what I thought was the exit. Instead I crashed into a now-standing Spock, who had his hand on my neck before I could throw a real punch.

_You have got to be kidding me_ was the last thought to drift through my anger-addled mind before everything went still and black.

I came to several minutes later on the linoleum floor feeling much like a boulder had just been rolled off my head. I tried turning my neck and ended up facing my reflection in Spock's shiny shoes.

"What the hell was that?"

"A nerve pinch," Spock answered from somewhere above, "typically used by Vulcans to incapacitate humanoid beings as well as other large mammals achieved by applying pressure to the base of the neck."

"You don't say…" I kicked my left leg out straight so I was lying flat on the floor.

"Are you in need of assistance?"

"No, no, I'm good down here." An awkward silence followed; I used the time to count ceiling tiles but gave up since they kept multiplying. I was about to ask Spock how many light fixtures there were compared to how many I was seeing when he resumed talking.

"I'm afraid I have not been completely honest with you, Mister Kirk." He drummed his long fingers on his right knee before continuing. "A few days prior to our partnership I requested a background check regarding your professional history."

"Yeah," I said, licking my dry lips, "I know."

I could now move my next enough to see Spock's face. Sure enough, one eyebrow was raised. "You were aware?"

"Not until recently," I replied, folding my hands on my stomach. "Why'd you do it?"

My partner's eyebrows knitted together as he lost himself in his thoughts. Glancing back down at me, he finally leaned forward, meeting my gaze.

"You were not brought in solely for your additional knowledge of the case, nor was it because of your father's connection to Captain Pike. Your presence was necessary to reestablish personal relations as well as to alleviate negative public reactions."

A knot started forming in my chest. "The families weren't comfortable with a Vulcan handling the case."

"Affirmative."

"You weren't the first alien hired by the PD," I pointed out.

"That is a fact, as is the detail that I am the 'alien,' as you say, who has served on the force for the longest period of time."

"And humans still don't trust you." I had meant it to be a question but it solidified into a statement as I spoke.

Another silence formed, allowing me to absorb this information, my head heavy once more.

Again, Spock spoke. "Researching a fellow detective without suspicion was perhaps uncalled for, irrational at best. However…"

Slowly, I raised myself up on my arms, ending up in a sitting position to meet my partner's gaze, which had once again wandered. " 'However?' "

Spock's eyes darted back, reading my expression as if he was afraid that what he would say next would offend me.

"I had to analyze your personality for myself to ascertain whether you were enough of an individual, whether you would be accepting of my behavior as well as my companionship."

I straightened my back, folding my arms across the tops of my knees. "You wanted to make sure I wasn't like everyone else."

"And I can assure you," Spock replied with perhaps a hint of amusement, "you most certainly are not."

I smiled slightly, considering my next question. "Would you… would you have been offended if I wasn't? I mean, you seem so… _indifferent_ most of the time, and I just thought…"

Spock's expression grew stony. "Outward appearance notwithstanding, I assure you I am quite capable of human levels of emotion." Placing a hand over his abdomen, he added, "Some matters must be felt not with the brain."

I frowned. "You felt it in your liver?"

"Vulcan hearts are located on the right side of the torso, above the pelvis yet below the ribcage, which I suppose is in approximation to the location of the human liver," Spock explained.

"Huh," I said, mimicking his action. "Kind of reminds me of…"

Realization struck. "It reminds me of our case." The pieces that had started coming together when I was on the phone with Sulu yesterday fell into place. I grabbed my head, meeting Spock's curious gaze. "I didn't connect it because I was too focused on Chekov, too focused on being human."

Spock's silence prompted me to sit up and continue. "The kids were stabbed in the torso. Due to the… _chaotic _nature of the wounds, I didn't even realize some of their organs were rearranged."

"To mimic Vulcan physiology," Spock concluded for me. "That's how these cases are connected?"

I nodded, jumping up on wobbly legs. "We have to get to Bones' files, _now_."

* * *

"Blond hair, black hair, blond hair... It doesn't make sense…"

I concentrated on the files spread out on the dented desk, squinting in the dim light. We had relocated to Bones' filing room, a cramped basement closet lit by one spare electric light bulb.

Spock stood in silence, waiting for the rest of my thought.

"It doesn't make sense," I continued, "but this is about you and me."

"Explain."

I pointed to the second picture in my lineup. "The blond kids, those are me, I think. Nero knew how the people around here were wary of you handling the case, so he must have assumed I would be brought in one way or another. Shit, he must have heard me talking about my cases at the bar way back before this all spiraled."

"So it would be natural then to assume the odd numbered victims –"

"The dark-haired ones, right."

"– who have had their viscera rearranged, are representational of myself, although I have to ask why did he not kill actual Vulcan children?"

The light flickered. "To throw us off. Vulcans would have connected too easily to Uhura's case. Besides, there aren't that many in this area. They needed to be here since he's sending such a specific message."

The Vulcan flipped a few of the photographs over, examining the information Bones had scribbled on the backs. "The victims accelerate in age."

I inhaled sharply. "I think he's working his way up to us, but I'm not sure why."

"I think it's safe to conclude that his intentions are unrelated to our connection to law enforcement."

I stared at the open files, avoiding my partner's eye contact. "I hate to say it, but since this boils down to Nero's obsession with Vulcans, why is he targeting _you_? Can you think of something you or even your parents might have done to offend someone?"

Spock folded his hands, staring at the wall in avoidance of my questioning gaze. "My parents have done something that offends everyone. They created me."

I inhaled sharply. "That's right. Sorry, but would you run me through how exactly that scenario came about?" I figured going about things in a no-nonsense way might help Spock deal with his predicament better. At any rate, my request garnered me a weird look from Spock, as if I'd grown another pair of arms.

"My father, Sarek, was appointed ambassador to Earth by the Vulcan council a number of years ago," Spock began, my technique apparently working. "The Vulcan race had been studying the culture of humans from afar, but past attempts at contact had been unsuccessful. Vulcans are a highly advanced race, so it was decided a party would visit Earth 'in person,' as it were."

"What, no pomp," I teased, "no circumstance?"

Spock looked flustered. "We Vulcans are… not particularly extravagant people."

"So I gathered."

"During their initial phase of exploration, my father and his team encountered a human woman. Amanda Grayson."

"Your mother," I inferred.

"For reasons still not entirely discernable, this human woman agreed to keep the Vulcan visit a secret," Spock continued. "Eventually, she and my father married, and the rest…"

"Right." I cleared my throat as Spock stared at me with dark eyes. "So, now that everyone on Earth knows about Vulcans, how many people know about this specifically, and why does it piss them off so much?"

Spock seemed to frown in the flickering light. "All Vulcans know, obviously. The Council practically made it public knowledge."

"Do all Romulans know, too?" I prompted.

Spock considered my question. "I could not say one way or another," he said hesitantly. "I doubt it yet cannot assume it to be so." Assuming a much more authoritative tone, he continued. "As for your role, Detective Kirk, I believe you are, as they say, a fall guy."

"Shit. You're right." Spock and I both knew I had an alibi, but it was looking weaker by the moment. If Pike hadn't already fired me, he was bound to the moment I stepped foot back in the precinct. I blew out a breath I had been holding and squared my shoulders. "How are we going to fix this?"

"That, Detective Kirk, is simple."

I met Spock's determined gaze, breaking eye contact only when I felt the keys to the police cruiser being pressed into my hand.

"We convict the true culprit."

* * *

"_When you just ain't got nobody, since you gone and lost your head_," Jordan Louis crooned from the Stylemaster's speakers, "_Rigor mortis has set in, daddy. Jack, you're dead_."

I turned the radio off, squeezing my eyes closed, and listening instead to the rain drumming the outside of the automobile. I heard the passenger's side door open, Spock sliding into the seat while shaking excess water off his overcoat.

"Take the next left onto Broadway then turn right on Hyde Street," my partner commanded, fastening his seatbelt.

"I take it the search warrant went through," I mused, recognizing the directions would lead us from here to Nero's apartment.

"I have no doubt Mister Nero and company are gone by now," Spock said in reply as I pulled away from the curb, "but I believe looking through the apartment in any condition would be beneficial to our investigation."

"Agreed." I swung to a stop opposite an early-20th century gray brick apartment building. A balding man – undoubtedly the building's super – was waiting for us on the landing, wearing a tired expression and toying with a ring of keys. "Let's see what we can find."

* * *

"I probably should have asked this earlier," I grumbled after ten minutes of rifling through old newspapers, "but what exactly are we looking for? I seriously doubt Nero kept mementos of his crimes."

"I concur, it seems unlikely unless he desires to taunts us in our investigation," Spock said from across the room. My partner was currently engrossed in the contents of the kitchen's garbage bin, which he had spread out on the linoleum floor.

"Maybe he didn't want reminders of the 'filth' he killed," I muttered, slamming down a stack of old bill payment receipts on the scuffed coffee table.

"Maybe he didn't kill actually anyone at all," the super countered, craning his head around the doorframe to glare at me from the outer hall. Though his face was unfamiliar, I recognized the disgruntled expression – I had reputation of not formally asking for permission before going through someone's place for my cases. Apparently, I had crossed one man too many in San Francisco.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You're not helping."

"Neither are you, Mister Kirk," Spock added, passing through the apartment behind me. "Might I suggest you begin going through the trash receptacle in the bathroom instead o just standing there?"

With a huff, I turned and instead followed Spock into the bedroom, where he began pulling out empty drawers from the dresser. "OK, really, how are you – I mean, _we_ going to prove Nero is connected to this case?"

Spock stopped rummaging to raise a disparaging eyebrow at me. "You now doubt your intuition, the strong feeling you've had about the investigation leading up to this?"

"No," I lied. "I've decided to use logic instead." Spock cast me what I interpreted to be a doubting look before resuming his search efforts, running his long, thin fingers under various furniture pieces. "OK, let me think about connections," I continued, pausing to think. "I guess the car is his, but this whole kidnapping deal hinges on Chekov, who's missing – "

"And if you were a plane mechanic holding someone hostage," Spock began as he stood up straight and turned to face me with wild, excited eyes, "where would you take them?" Before I could consider his question, the detective held up a ring of keys and shook them once.

I grinned in response. "A spare hangar at the Bay Meadows airport." Before Spock could answer I bolted from the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time to get back Spock's cop cruiser.

As my feet hit the sidewalk, I glanced up in time to spy a tall, shadowy figure running away from the car.

"HEY!" I darted down the alley after the masked man, nearly catching the back of his jacket before he turned a sharp corner. Before I could catch up, the saboteur scrambled up an open set of fire-escape stairs, pulling the ladder up behind him. "Shit," I hissed, watching him crawl through a broken window into the third floor. Bouncing back and forth on my feet, I debated running back to the front of the building and demanding to be let in.

Instead, I returned to the block Nero's apartment was on, to an expressionless Spock standing near the hood of the car. "The engine is dead, isn't it?" I asked him, scowling.

Spock rapped twice on the windshield before turning to face me. "Indeed. I suggest our new imperative would be to find a functional telephone in the neighborhood."

"Agreed," I panted. "We should get someone out here to look at the car so we can get it fixed quick and make it out to the Bay to bust Nero."

Spock blinked back at me. "You merely want our car to lead the cavalry. I believe it would be better for everyone involved to call the station and inform the other officers of our breakthrough, allowing them to respond more efficiently while my automobile gets fixed."

I checked my watch, ignoring Spock's accusations. "It's 2:03. Based on the previous T.O.D.s, we've got about two hours before they off Chekov, and it will take us half an hour to get there." Sighing, I glanced around the rain-dampened streets. "Now the stores are all closed, but I'm pretty sure I saw a payphone back the way we came."

"Your memory could be faulty," Spock replied, staring past me into space. "The downtown district is in the opposite direction and more likely to have available payphone booths."

I looked both ways down the darkened street. "We have to split up."

"Absolutely not."

"Spock, we need a telephone. We also need to keep an eye on Nero's place but –

"We can't be in two places at once." Spock looked at me in silence for a moment, slight traces of recognition then resignation passing over his face. "I suppose it would be asking too much of you to stay out of trouble while I am gone?"

I gave him my best Vulcan salute. "I'll do my best."

Spock continued glaring at me.

"Scout's honor?"

The detective looked no less convinced but nevertheless turned away, heading toward the main street to begin his search.

I waited until he had turned the first corner before sprinting off the opposite way. "Who are we kidding," I laugh to myself, "I was never a Boy Scout." There _was_ a phone booth back this way, _had to_ be one, I knew. Even if it wasn't as close as I remembered, I convinced myself I was helping Spock. This way our search would go faster and cover a larger area. Odds of finding anything improved with two people looking, right?

Slowing to a stop, I spied my Holy Grail on High Street – a deserted telephone booth. "Of course right," I reassured myself as I jogged over to make my call.

"Hello, Operator?" I asked, not waiting for a reply. "I need you to put me through to Archer's Autos." I realize the odds on this shop being open this late are slim to none, but Mr. Scott had said anything _ever_ and I was holding him to his word.

"Hang on just _one_ second, dear," the woman on the other end replied.

I slumped forward in relief as the line went quiet. Running a hand over my face, I happened to catch a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the glass paneling.

At the sight of another man standing behind me, my blood ran cold.

Any hope I had of the lurker being Spock dissipated when I turned around. The goon was tall and muscular – as they usually are – with murder in his eyes and a lead pipe in his hands. He moved three steps closer, trapping me in the phone booth.

Panicked, I smacked him in the head with the telephone receiver I still clutched. The mook grumbled a few choice words before dropping the pipe and grabbing both of my wrists and squeezing.

I dropped the receiver as my attacker shoved me backwards, my elbow cracking a pane of glass. Picking up the telephone, the thug smirked at me. "I guess we'll do things your way, _detective_," he said in a voice so deep I nearly his mocking comment. Before I could ask what the hell that meant, the man had the telephone cord wrapped around my throat.

I felt my feet leave the ground, felt my legs kicking, hoping to strike something, _anything_ to give me some sort of leverage. Just when I was starting to see stars, a familiar voice piped in, brash and tinny, separated from the action by a series of metal wires.

"Ello?" the phone blared. "'Ello? Speak up, I kinna hear ya'!"

A gurgle escaped my throat before something solid connected with the side of my head and sent me spinning into blackness.

**A/N**: Reboot!Kirk just can't catch a break, can he? Also, I learned that yes, there were Boy Scout organizations in the 1940s. You learn something new every day. As always, let me know if I missed a note or goofed on a detail.


End file.
